Counterplay
by Jinnie
Summary: To Dean and John Winchester, Sam is the only one not expendable. 'Shadow' AU. No slash. Strong warnings for language, possible reinterpreted spoilers and torture. Updated 1.22.07.
1. Chapter 1

**Counterplay**

**Authors:** A. Jinnie and SG  
**Rated:** R (language, mostly)  
**Pairings?** None  
**Warnings:** Spoilers through all aired episodes. "Shadows" AU.

**Summary:** "Sam would have fought us in the end, or John" – Meg spat the name, simmering with hatred – "would've stopped us." She gave Dean a devilish smile. "Now they won't." "Shadows" AU.

_Chapter One_

It took her two minutes to gag him. Sam was the college boy and Dad knew everything else, but Dean knew how to swear in every existing language on earth by the time he hit puberty. It was his gift to the world.

He shook his head, trying to clear it. Blood kept getting in his eyes. Combine that with the sight of Meg Masters behind the wheel of his precious Impala, and it all added up to an absolutely shitty day.

And then there was his current status as Kidnapped Pussy. Dean sighed as deeply as he could, trying to shift enough on his backseat to find at least some comfort. He was hardly short, unless he stood up next to Sam… which pissed him off to no end.

"We'll have to ditch the car," Meg told him, interrupting his internal rant. "But not yet. It's too soon."

She peered into the mirror, studying him. Dean cocked an eyebrow and stared right back. His leather jacket adorned her shoulders, and she smelled lightly of…

… the same perfume he vaguely remembered from his mother. Somehow, his glare grew _more_ murderous.

"Like it, baby?" she asked him. "It's for you. Not really my thing. Not splashy enough, you know?" She giggled. Dean's head hurt. Here he lay, bound like a stuck pig in the backseat of his own car and gagged with his captor's warm pantyhose, and she wanted to discuss perfume preference?

"I went about it all wrong the first time," she continued. "Trying to get Sam to come with me that way. He's what we ultimately need, but he's not you, baby. Sam would have fought us in the end, or John" – Meg spat the name, simmering with hatred – "would've stopped us."

She gave Dean a devilish smile.

"Now they won't."

* * *

As a general rule, Sam didn't hate human beings. Sure, he'd gone a few million rounds with his father and Dean was a real pain in the ass, but he was still a Winchester. Humans were innocent in the family quest. They were to be protected at all costs. Period.

He staggered down the street towards their shoddy hotel room, face and nicked wrists dripping mercilessly, feeling like he'd gone a couple rounds against a cargo jet. And lost.

But even his abused body was secondary. Where the hell had she taken Dean?

This was all his fault, and he knew it. She'd played him from the beginning and he'd gone along like a gibbering teenager seeing a pretty girl for the first time. What use were his talents if they couldn't warn him of a trap he should've been able to see in his sleep?

He didn't even have to close his eyes. The horrible scene played out in his head like something out of nightmare. They had fought together, and each had taken turns distracting Meg so at least one could escape –-

And then it had all gone to hell. Meg had kissed him fully, moving far faster than any human. One shout of protest from his startled big brother, one "I'll see you soon, baby" from the _thing_ wearing a woman's form, and both of them were gone. The Impala, too. He'd wondered about that at first – _why would she make herself so easy to follow?_ – when he realized that was her intention.

This was all a deadly game, and Dean's death waited for Sam at the end. The Winchester blood in their parking spot had made that very clear.

Angrily, he kept walking. Innocent Human rule be damned; he shook uncontrollably. He was going to get his brother back and Meg was going to die horribly for daring to touch one hair on his head.

He just didn't know how yet.

* * *

They drove for six hours before she bled him for the first time.

Dean jerked awake, dimly aware of a fire in his shoulder. Awareness returning slowly enough for him to know he'd been drugged, the soft sound of Meg's chanting filling his ears, he forced his eyes open.

Grimacing, he resisted the impulse to squeeze them shut again. She twisted the dagger expertly in full circles, eyes dark with concentration. He might've screamed, but found he was now gagged with the remains of his shirt – more security, the clinical soldier in him distantly realized. Pantyhose wouldn't have held back this kind of agony.

And then she stopped. Her hand pressed against his back, lightly leaning him over the ornate cup she held. He couldn't help a moan as his blood obediently filled the inside. _Fuck, that hurt!_

* * *

Sam threw himself through the door, reeling. Dean's anguish – whether it was truly his or just Sam's guilt working overtime – tore through his left shoulder. For a moment, he wondered if something was actually tearing off his arm.

And then he realized he was bleeding anew. Gritting his teeth, he wrenched his shirt over his head. A sigil glowed on the wound, the same meaningless Zoroastrian image they'd found in the dead girl's apartment. The blood disappeared as quickly as it appeared, and Sam could hear Meg's mocking laughter, taste her lips against his own. _"This is the beginning of the end for all of you,"_ she whispered in his ear. And laughed again.

_"Sam!"_ someone shouted.

The sigil remained a moment later, a despicable brand on pure skin. And then it, too, vanished. Just like Dean had. Just like everyone he'd ever known had.

_"Samuel!"_

Dean? Or was it – could it be –

_"Samuel John Winchester!"_

He blinked. This was not the reunion he had envisioned.

"Dad?"

He seemingly flew to his youngest son's side, taking in the blood on his face. "It was a trap," John stated bluntly. Horror and pity warred in his mind. _What did she do to you, Sammy? And for you to look like that, what did she do to your protector?_

But Sam lowered his eyes and missed his father's worry. Fine with John. They didn't have time for it, anyway. Sam had wasted enough while he yelled for attention.

Dean would've understand that.

"Damnit, Dean," John bit out, frustrated. "You're better than this."

Sam cleared his throat, watching the man pace. As far as his father was concerned, he wasn't even there.

"Tell me what she said," John barked. "Did she have help? Did your research indicate any clues to her destination? What was her emotional state? How wounded was Dean? Was he able to resist her? Did he leave any trail? What was the gas status on the Impala? Who was she working for? Was she human? What kind of pre-op did you two – did Dean do? Anything that can help us?"

John buried the question about his eldest's health carefully. For all he knew, Dean had already died. But one look at Sam and he knew he'd never voice that suspicion. Dean would've coddled him and snapped him back to awareness with a few choice quips. Dean would've _loved_ his little brother enough to know when to reassure and when to coax.

But John didn't know how. So he did the only way he knew to get that awful, lost expression off his boy's face, personal cost be damned.

"Sam! Answer me! Get yourself together and _do your job_."

The youngest Winchester stared at his father in disgust. Dean was missing, maybe even dead, and John thought being an emotionless marine jackass was the solution? Dean might've tolerated it. There was no way in hell Sam would.

"Dad – " Sam fumed, ready to give his father a piece of his mind.

A throaty chuckle interrupted. Sam whirled, raising a gun instantly – only to find that John had already imposed himself between whatever had just appeared in front of them, weapon cocked and ready.

"I'm so sorry," the bitch purred, a look of oozing concern on her face. "Am I interrupting?"

John reached backwards with his free hand, securing Sam behind him. "_Where_," he growled, "_is my son?"_

"Behind you, baby," was the innocent response. "Forgot already? Easy to do." She smirked. "As fighters go, he's a lover. No wonder you ran away from him. No wonder Dean was glad to escape him."

Sam couldn't help but flinch. Channeling his hurt and rage, he jerked out of his father's hold. And fired.

"Sam!" John snapped.

The bullet slammed innocuously into the wall behind her; the manifestation wasn't literal. John spared one glance to glare incredulously at him. Had four years away wiped that much knowledge from his brain?

"I've never done this before either," Meg mocked him. "Didn't have the power." She held up the same cup Sam remembered, filled with blood.

_Dean_'s blood.

"Do now," she laughed cheerily.

Sam positively shook with fury, hardly noticing when it stood his hair on end. Physically thrown away from his son, John watched with wonder as the cabinet doors behind them slammed open and closed. The plaster on the walls trembled and paint fell from the ceiling with his every word.

"I am going to kill you for this," he informed her, the sheer calmness of his voice far more terrifying than anything John had ever seen before.

Meg turned her head, seemingly reacting to something father and son couldn't see. "Sorry, guys. My guest needs attention."

Just enough relief penetrated the burning inferno that was Sam for him to regain control. The room stopped tearing itself apart. He didn't miss the look of pride shining in John's eyes, and knew it wasn't for him and never would be, but honestly didn't care.

Dean was alive, and probably pissing her off. Nothing else mattered.

She smiled at them, and there was nothing remotely human in her features.

"So it begins."

And then she was gone.

_To be continued._

* * *

I welcome any thoughts! Thanks for reading. :)


	2. Chapter 2

_Chapter Two_

"You," Dean informed her conversationally, voice muffled, "are a bitch."

She paused a little, just long enough for him to know his fucking annoying gag was no deterrent for her hearing. Or its hearing?

Nice to know _something_ was going his way. Under the makeshift bandage she'd placed, his shoulder throbbed like another bitch of his very own. Lucky him.

"Normally," he schmoozed, narrowing his eyes in the effortless manner Sam had always envied - hell, guys he'd stolen a number of girls from had always envied - "I'd consider this a fun little extra. You, me, handcuffs, bottle of Jack's finest..."

Gritting her teeth, Meg reached over and pulled on the back of his gag. Pain sliced through the sensitive skin framing his mouth, and Dean tasted blood. His. Just like her demon boss would in a moment. But he was done lying passively still while she used him like a damn Country Buffet.

"What's the matter, sweetheart?" he asked, slurring the words for full aggravating effect. "I thought you wanted company! Isn't that why I'm here?"

Moonlight flashed on the blade. He ignored the cold dread seeping through his gut. Once had been more than enough, he certainly wasn't in a hurry to repeat the experience. _Dad'll think of something_, he told himself. _And he'll keep Sam away. Just hold on and don't be a wuss._

Meg pounced on him, curving her lithe frame against his. Her breath was warm on his neck. Dean flinched, ignoring the agony pounding up and down his entire left arm, and struggled fiercely. Yet, he couldn't budge her. At all. This was fucking ridiculous, she was a little thing and he was a trained hunter! Damnit!

"Get off me!" he thundered against the cotton, fighting to pull himself away. "Get the _fuck_ off me!"

She laughed in delight, one hand wrapping around his waist in coy mockery of a lover's embrace.

The other held the knife.

"Be careful what you wish for," she cooed, enjoying the thrill of control. The man squirming beneath her answered solely to her whims. Besting any member of this cursed family was a pleasure, but somehow, she doubted she'd even enjoy John this much.

She waited patiently until her wounded prisoner exhausted himself and lay still, muttering things into the knotted cloth that were probably designed to piss her off. Dean Winchester was entirely too predictable.

Eyeing him carefully, Meg released Dean's waist. A tremendous rush of power tore through her body as she lifted the knife. Oblivious to his grunts of pain, she lowered the dagger just above his heart, carving with calm precision. Not deep enough to kill him - yet - but enough for him to bleed freely. Somewhere, her Father cackled with delight as a Winchester had his mark permanently scarred onto his skin.

She was going slowly on purpose, Dean knew. The horrific sound of a purposely dull knife ripping through flesh filled the Impala and white-hot torment shivered through his body. He tried again to move, even if it just slightly screwed up whatever she was working so hard on. But something held him down; something far more powerful than a small woman or earthly restraints. Prevented even from writhing, he screamed with desperate abandon. Repeatedly, until his gag finally won the oxygen war. As darkness closed in on his vision and Meg continued to do whatever the hell she was doing, his last thought was _I'm sorry, Sam._

Only when Dean was long unconscious did Meg stop, cleaning the blade. "I hope you enjoyed that, Father," she whispered into the once-again full cup. The contents sizzled as if powered by an electric current - which in a way, it was. Sam was the true prize, but that same precious blood flowed through Dean's veins.

Just less of it, now.

* * *

" - know what to do," John was saying. "This was the last place you boys were together, so if he's able, Dean might try to contact you here. Keep the safety off the gun, lock the doors and wait for my - "

Sam folded his tall frame into a chair, staring at nothing. His father's voice flitted willfully in and out of his awareness just as his father's presence had his entire life.

" - trap! Should've been obvious! I expected this from you, but Dean? The hell was he - "

His knuckles hurt. Sam glanced at them absently, noting the blood. It shimmered in the light, just as his brother's stolen vital fluid had gleamed in Meg's silver cup.

Just as his father's nose now did. John landed hard against the wall on the other side of the room, sliding down with an astonished groan. The youngest Winchester crashed back into reality with the vicious-sounding slam as his father's imposing body beat a hole into the drywall.

"Dad?" he stammered, horrified. He whirled, jerking the gun out from his belt. "Where is it?" he demanded, moving with the grace of a hunter infused with twice his years in skill. Anger began to build once more. Who the fuck was messing with his family now? He hadn't even seen it move before it attacked his father!

"Right here, son," his father answered, in a tone far too gentle for the current circumstances, the redness in his bruised face showing a very human hand.

Sam hesitated, mouth falling open in confusion.

John was looking straight at him.

* * *

He wasn't in the Impala anymore.

It hurt to move, it hurt to breathe, it hurt to _think_. But Dean knew his car, and whatever he was in barely made a sound. The Chevy claimed territory wherever it went. You knew it was there, and you knew not to fuck with it. Cassie had called it one of his many psych issues. But damnit, that's why he loved it.

Dean suppressed a moan, wrenching his eyes open. Automatic inventory told him he'd been changed out of the filthy, ripped pants he'd lived in the past day or so. _I hope you enjoyed the show, _he thought angrily. Blood still flowed lightly from Meg's little souvenirs, staining the clean white bandages.

"You won't believe me, but I'm sorry," Meg murmured, glancing at him in the rearview mirror.

He didn't bother dignifying that bullshit with a glare.

"I wanted to give you something for the pain first," she went on, "like last time. You didn't scream as much then. But Father didn't like that." She eyed the now-red bandages pointedly, a cool smirk on her lips. "It tainted your flavor."

Yeah. He could've happily died before hearing _that_.

She sighed, drumming her hands on the wheel. "You know, Dean, I like you," she told him. "I mean, you're not a sweetheart like Sammy is. You're a coarse, selfish son of a bitch and everyone either hates you or wants to admire your repulsiveness. But that's your appeal."

Dean, torn between rolling his eyes and wishing sudden death for the bitch daring to even mention Sam's name, forced himself to concentrate on his restraints. His wrists were pinioned tightly behind his back, and a short length of rope connected his bound ankles to the car's right doorframe. He shifted quietly in exploration, eyes glued to Meg as he struggled. Thankfully, she didn't seem to notice. His handcuffs were gone, he noted grimly. In their place was what felt like coated wire - nothing he could cut through or pick - and nothing that would cut into him and waste his apparent beverage gift. She was good, he'd give her that.

"So," she sighed. "I've been thinking about how to make it up to you. And I think I know how. But first, baby, you need to understand something."

She pulled over and crawled over the front seat, kneeling next to him. Hating himself for it, Dean tensed.

"Look out the window," she ordered him.

Too puzzled at the strange request to defy, he did so, wincing as the cuts protested his movement. The windows were tinted to outsiders, but he could clearly see people walking by and the schoolbus farther up the road.

"I'm going to take off your gag," she said. Dean raised an eyebrow. "That's my compensation. But one attempt to yell, and all those people?" She shrugged. "You checked out those cords. You know you aren't going anywhere. You wouldn't get anything out of it but a front row seat to their instant, messy deaths. And even you're not that selfish. Got it?"

* * *

"I didn't - " Sam stuttered, speechless. His knuckles throbbed in guilt. "I didn't - " _Move! Mean to! Shit! What the fuck just happened?_

"It's okay," John reassured, climbing back to his feet gingerly. The boy could hit. Even when he physically didn't, apparently. "I probably deserved that."

Sam blinked. And blinked again. Since when did John Winchester admit wrongdoing?

"Look," his father said. "I know that sooner or later, you and I need to have a talk. But we can do that after I get your brother back. Stay here and I give you my word I'll keep you updated."

Sam was almost - _almost_- relieved. This was the man ashamed to call him a son. He turned away from him again, carefully collecting the assorted weapons and other essentials Sam's mental tirades had tossed carelessly around.

"I'm going with you," Sam told him calmly. Dean would've hollered at him to stop picking fights and fucking listen to his betters. But then, that was the problem. Dean wasn't here, and his father was trying too hard to pick up the same responsibilities he'd once assigned Dean.

And since those responsibilities at this very moment in time didn't involve hunting, he was failing miserably.

"No," John said simply, "you're not. They're clearly interested in you. That means you stay away. Period."

And suddenly Sam was ten years old again, watching Dean and the father he barely knew walk out the door with weapons hidden under jackets while he was left behind "for his own good."

"But - "

"That's an _order_, Samuel."

Dean would be yelling at Sam to grow up. Like everything else in his family, that had a different meaning than normal.

But Sam _was_ normal. Normal as in homework and little league and genuine friendships and Jessica and almost - _almost _- Stanford. Therein lay the conflict.

"I don't care. I'm going."

_To be continued._

* * *

Your reviews made (and make!) my day. Thanks for reading, and everyone who reviewed the last chapter should have a reply waiting for them in their emails. :)

Daily updates are not something I can always promise, but I will try my hardest to at least make one a week.


	3. Chapter 3

Dedicated to Antigone11.

_Chapter Three_

"I'm going to enjoy killing you," Dean informed her when the hated thing was out of his mouth. His voice sounded like Sam going through puberty, but he didn't give a shit.

She leaned over, touching her nose to his, smiling when he pulled away and couldn't stop a gasp of pain. "Likewise, baby."

With one last leer, she returned to the driver's seat.

"But not yet," she enlightened him. "First, we gotta get your brother in the game."

Enough of the fucking games, damnit!

"All right. What's this about?" he demanded, voice rising in irritation. In response, Meg glanced at the children walking next to the car, and he reluctantly quelled his urge to scream every obscenity he could think of into her smug face.

"You know as well I do that you're never going to touch Sam. Dad will take care of that. And this little hostage bullshit? Dad protects Sam. _I_ protect Sam. If either of us had to choose, it would be that simple. First you try to get him on a bus with you, and now this? The hell do you think you're doing?"

She laughed in genuine delight, eyes shining in merriment. "Oh, Dean, baby," she chuckled. "You've got it all wrong. We're not going to hurt him. If we wanted him dead, he would have died in his crib."

Dean made himself stop talking. She was a fountain of knowledge without his help.

"We need him," she divulged. "He wasn't ready then, but he gets closer everyday. That boy has _so much power_. We just needed him to ripen. He'd started that on his own, but when I visited him and he thought I'd killed you?"

Utter wonder shone in her eyes.

"It's like I told you in the beginning. He just needs more time. And your father? Is in the way. Us spending time together takes care of both of that. Baby, you're just the pawn. Be a good little boy and I might even be persuaded to kill you quickly." She turned to face him, mouth twisting with the effort of seeming sincere. "Your family will never know a greater mercy than that."

* * *

It was a classic Texas standoff, John standing eye to eye with his youngest son - and when had _that_ happened? He was no longer the tallest Winchester. 

Silently, he begged anyone or anything listening to help Sam see reason.

"Sam, all we know about this is that she seemed attracted to you," he reminded bluntly. Sam glared at him. _Take it easy, John._ He worked on softening his tone. "You might be the endgame and Dean might be the distraction." _Or the bait._ "I just don't know that yet. But until I do, you are staying as far away from this as possible."

Sam was already shaking his head, innocent eyes wide. Mentally, John braced himself for another uncontrolled attack. "Dad, you don't get it! Dean and I, we - "

_Patience_, John willed himself. This wasn't his obedient soldier of a firstborn. Dean, he vaguely remembered, had always turned to soothing as a last resort when his baby brother hadn't wanted to be left behind. And it had almost always worked. "Sam, uh, _please_ listen to me."

"I'm _going_. Every minute we waste arguing here could mean Dean's life! The fuck are you waiting for?"

He was right and John knew it. But it didn't matter. His orders were to be obeyed. Any thought of coddling fled out of necessity.

"Dean wouldn't still be alive now if his time of death didn't matter," the older man snapped. "She's waiting for something. And Sam, if that something is _you_ and you're with me when I find them, _you_ would have killed Dean. Is that what you want? _Stay here_." His lecture punctuated by the sharp vibrate of his phone, John turned and started out the door.

And then he paused in mid-step, a noticeable shock running through his body.

"Dad?" Sam asked warily, his father's harsh truths still echoing in his ears.

John opened his mouth; choked on the words. _Oh, God._

"_Dad?_" Sam repeated. "Is it - did something happen?"

By the time John faced his son, no emotion was evident on his face. Sam needed his strength right now, no matter what bottling up his anguished horror cost him. But he still couldn't help drawing a large breath in preparation.

Sam frowned, watching his father abruptly switch to unfeeling robot. Sometimes, the demons he fought seemed more human.

"Sam," John spit out, voice still strangled. "Let's go. They found the Impala."

* * *

"You hungry?" 

Her captive looked at her like she'd suddenly sprouted wings. Meg stretched, enjoying the illusion of humanity. In between blood rites, she'd driven at least 10 hours straight.

"I want something greasy," she said, her voice pitched as though she was telling him a tremendous secret. "Something with completely no nutritional value."

Dean pursed his lips. "I don't know, sweetheart," he mused, gravely matching her tone. "If I were you, I'd go with a salad."

Truth be told, he knew he needed to eat, and soon. Given the amount of fluid she'd taken from him, his body might not be able to handle too much more and he needed all his strength. But that would open the door to other messy problems, like what happened after digestion.

And he doubted she'd actually feed him, anyway.

She laughed easily, leaning over to check her wallet. "I saw you in the bar, Dean. I know you were eyeing me. It's okay, you know? I'm not blind either."

Dean rolled his eyes. "_Baby_," he mocked her, "if a guy happens to check you out, it's because you happen to be - _appear_ - female. Although personally, I was just wondering what kind of _bitch_ my very idealistic brother was enamored with."

She slung her purse over her shoulder, tossing him a wink in the mirror. "Starve then," she said, expression mild. "I'll be right back."

Astonished, Dean watched as, with careless nonchalance, she opened the door and left him alone. This was a trap, and he knew it. She'd gone to too much trouble to snatch him, she wouldn't just leave him in a car without a guard!

But it didn't matter. He'd been trained endlessly to seize opportunities, and knew from long experience how to turn tables on cocky jackasses.

Ignoring his pain and the fact that every move ripped open his wounds, Dean strained violently. But if anything, the cords around his wrists tightened with his movements. Cursing, he focused on his feet. His ankles had the same cord, but also looped around them was the rope attaching him to the door, presumably so he couldn't kick Meg in the back of her head.

He put all his weight on it, wrenching himself to the other side of the car. Agonizingly slow, the rope began to fray.

"Come on, damnit," he groaned. Either he was going to do this or pass out from pain, and right now the pain was winning. "God fucking damnit! _Come on!_"

Nothing. Maybe he'd be free by next week, at the rate the fucking rope was falling apart. He cast his eyes about the unfamiliar car, searching reflexively for something_, anything_, that could help him.

The handle broke, freeing him from the car door. Startled, his weight distributed too broadly to keep his balance, Dean fell off the backseat.

* * *

They didn't speak a word for the entire drive. John imagined the worst - with Dean's precious baby in the terrible condition it was in, he couldn't help but indulge in a moment of parental terror. Sam stared out the window, all but squished against the doorframe as he sat as far away from his father as possible. _This was a good find, right?_ If they could catch a trail from it, this could be Meg's mistake. Granted, given his father's odd contradictory reactions the car was probably destroyed, but even the smallest pieces of something could tell a story. He'd learned that before he could talk. 

He straightened as John rounded the turn, recognizing the classic car instantly. Early morning sunlight lightly played over the flawless paint trim, and for a moment, Sam imagined Dean waiting for them inside the pristine car with an equally classic _gotcha!_ grin. He nearly fell out of the truck in his haste to reach it, not noticing his father dragging his heels.

John eyed the surroundings, telling himself he wasn't stalling. He didn't feel like they were being watched, other than the police caravan he'd deal with in a moment, but this was far from a fortunate find. Meg had abandoned the car in the middle of wheat fields. From what he could see, it didn't have a scratch on it.

Outside, that is.

He snapped back to full awareness, noticing with belated trepidation that Sam had reached his destination. Cursing, he jogged to join him. "Sam, wait - "

He needn't have bothered. His youngest son's cry of incensed revulsion boomed so loudly John was certain everyone in a 20 mile-radius would know they were here.

The back interior of the car, from the ceiling to the floorboards, was utterly drenched in blood. As he finally reached his disgusted son's side, John's eyes caught the words on the simply marinated backseat, carved deeply into the leather. Dean's discarded necklace had been strung up next to them.

HELP ME, SAMMY!

Both Winchesters could almost hear Meg's laughter.

Sam stared straight ahead, not blinking, eyes bloodshot. Rage curled his long hands into fists. Dimly, his father's voice pierced through his violent, and quite pleasant, daydreams of revenge.

"I'd consider it a personal favor," John was saying. He turned, raising his eyebrows at the sight of his father effortlessly charming the policemen now inspecting the Impala. "Yes, my jurisdiction has seen this kind of prank before. Clearly it's serial offender. I'd be happy to forward all the information, but I've been ordered to take possession of the car now."

Sam ignored them all, leaning against the car and peering in. The front seat didn't have a drop of blood anywhere; Meg's way of showing them all who had control. But in the drenched back, Sam could see scrapes against the soft seat, where Dean had fought against his handcuffs. Even now his big brother was resisting, and that was enough to ease him out of mindless bloodlust. Revenge for the sake of it was an ugly idea, and a distracting one.

Dean needed him. It was not something he was truly accustomed to. He was the need_ee_ and quite accustomed to his role.

He'd once told Dean that he'd die for him, and had never meant anything more. But now, and only when this was over and his brother was safe, it would be because he'd killed for him, too.

* * *

His allegiance would always be to Chevrolet, but Dean decided he wouldn't be averse to owning a Honda one day. He'd always thought only Chevy cared enough about car construction to focus on the tiniest details. He'd thought wrong. 

Keeping one eye on the windows, he struggled to saw at least partway through the cords on his wrists. When the handle had broken, it had torn the metal keeping the handle's shape clean off and both pieces had landed at his feet. The metal was soft, but sufficient enough to nick him when he missed. Hopefully, it would be enough.

_Come on, come on, come on, Oh God please, come on, let this work!_

When things finally started to go his way, there was no Hallelujah chorus. He simply withdrew himself, bracing for another effort, and realized quite suddenly that his arms were free. _Yes!_

It was no matter at all to hurriedly undo his ankles. The back doors didn't open when he attempted - _fucking child safety locks my ass!_ - so, still keeping a hypersensitive eye on his surroundings, he forced his bloodied, shirtless body to transfer to the front and was out of the Honda fast enough to do his father proud.

* * *

Keys in hand, John approached Sam with a timidity in his step that he hated himself for. His son's very… _special_ abilities made him somewhat of a loose cannon, and the police officers were still watching. 

Sam was frozen in the same position he'd had for the past hour, kneeling next to the open left door, Dean's necklace cradled in his hands.

"Son," John said. He reached over, about to lay a reassuring hand on the man's back, but hesitated too long. Sam turned to face him and he quickly tucked his hands in his pockets.

Sam's eyes were glassy, his breathing speeding up. The sweet coppery scent of blood was overwhelming. "I - I don't," Sam swallowed. "Dad, he - if I stay here like this, I can hear him screaming, and her enjoying it. And - and I can almost see _Him_ feeding off him."

What was he supposed to do here? John wondered. His first impulse was to drill Sam for "Him's" identity. Was that acceptable when his baby boy was falling to pieces? How did a real father handle something like this? How would _Dean_ have handled this?

Sam's eyes flooded. "Dean - oh God, Dad, they hurt him so badly. And for nothing! The first one was just to communicate with me and I don't know what the second stabbing was, but I somehow know it had a purpose, and this is all my fault. _My fault!_ You said they wanted me! _Why didn't they take me?_"

Sam's chest heaved and he staggered, barely managing to catch himself. John, feeling uncharacteristically out-of-place, did the only thing he could do. The only thing _to_ do. He stepped forward, pulled Sam to his feet, and wrapped his arms around his son. Sam buried his head into John's shoulder, weeping solidly and not caring who was watching.

"It'll be okay," John murmured, feeling like he was whispering worthless lies into his son's wispy hair, but needing to say _something_ to counter the sobs. Awkwardly, he patted the taller man's back. "It'll be okay, Sammy."

_To be continued._

* * *

Little bit longer wait time little bit longer updates. Fair? I hope so. 

All signed reviews have replies, so let me just say: thank you so much, Angy and Cat!


	4. Chapter 4

Oh my goodness, so many new readers! Thank you so much for checking this out! I'd love to hear what you think. I also must reiterate – this fic is rated T with strong warnings for language and torture. If that's not your cup of tea, surely there's cute brotherly fluff on FF, too. :)

Very special thanks to **wolfschild **and **batina34** over at TWOP for your incredibly kind and completely unexpected compliments! They made my _week_. Hee.

_Chapter Four_

The first thing Dean did was find a bathroom. When he emerged, water soothing both his dry throat and the angry wounds on his chest and shoulder, forehead finally scrubbed clean, he felt almost human again.

And then he found a phone. Still keeping an eye on the not-exactly-bustling Boonville St. behind him - he didn't know where Meg had gone, but he doubted she was far - Dean's eyes fell on the area code written in pencil.

660.

He frowned. Most kids considered it a point of pride to name the capital cities of all 50 states, but John had taken it one step farther. Dean had known the area codes and major highway routes of 700 American cities before he turned 15.

Boonville, Missouri. The very city name Dean had always pointed to Sam as evidence their father really did have a sense of humor. Just fucking perfect. And if he remembered correctly, Lawrence was only two hours away...

He called collect, praying his trusting brother would answer the random phone number and knowing he never would.

* * *

"Tell you what." John forced brightness into his tone, heart breaking as his youngest sniffled against his jacket. "You haven't driven anything until you've tried out my truck. Why don't you take it back to the hotel? I'll meet you there." 

Something nearly resembling a chuckle escaped Sam's lips, but it was laced with world-weary bitterness. "Dad, I'm not 15. And even then, I wasn't the one obsessed with that stuff. Dean was."

Sam froze at the past-tense, grief tightening his throat.

"Sam" - John started, forcing himself to stop. Damnit, he really was trying. But he also knew Sam's inability to understand that was his fault, not his son's. _Someone is going to have to drive the Impala back, and I don't want it to be you, _he mentally told his son. _Because I love you and I'm proud of you and I know how much that would hurt you and hell, why is Sam the only one of us who doesn't struggle with emotions?_

Dean was easy. He was truly Mary's son and knew instinctively from day one what he'd been born to do. His oldest son could turn off emotions like flipping a switch, burying his own desires beneath the weight of his duties. Sam, however, had inherited every inch of his father's stubbornness and none of his hard-earned control.

"They're not here," Sam grimaced. He broke away from John and paced restlessly. "The hotel is a waste of time. Damnit!"

John watched silently as Sam vigorously kicked one of the wheels, only to catch a glimpse of the inside and stop, body freezing so intensely he doubted the boy was breathing, before wrenching himself out of line of sight and continue pacing again.

The inside of the car... John frowned, looking again at the blood-filled interior, scanning every inch methodically. Sam was Dean's one emotional outlet. Even when his little soldier had suppressed all others to do his job, he'd still gone home and tucked his brother in at night. He wouldn't leave Sam without something if he was even remotely able. Dean would never allow Sam to worry or panic over him. Period.

It was barely visible and painstakingly done with a great deal of effort, but it was there. Dean apparently wasn't blindfolded. John felt a genuine smile curve his lips. _Well done, son._

"Sam..."

Still locked in his grief and not ready to deal with his father on top of everything else, Sam didn't turn. John sighed but allowed him his moment, studying the upholstery. In between the useless scratches marking Dean's futile defiance, he'd hidden his salvation.

_I70W._

Dean and Sam's training was second-to-none, but John was not universally despised in certain circles just because of his sons. Long-memorized maps played through his mind. He rose, having fallen into a crouch to absently stroke the leather. The highway roared behind them.

They'd vanished more than half the day before. It was a ten-hour drive from Chicago to Lawrence, Kansas, but she'd clearly made several stops to torment them all and switch cars. He'd seen no indication she had help, and transferring a resisting hostage - or even just a stocky, unconscious one - to a new vehicle would've taken time. Could he still cut them off?

He had no way of knowing. But he had to try and in the meantime, he had to get Sam out of harm's way. But how could he do that without gravely insulting the boy? Perhaps by keeping him involved some way other than physical presence? He didn't _need_ research help, but clearly Sam _needed_ to participate.

Sam paused, noticing suddenly they'd switched places. His father now knelt next to the car where he'd previously been, staring inside. He hesitated. Dean was John's prodigal son, his true confidante and unbendable ally. Could he have misjudged the man's awkwardness for paralyzing anxiety?

"Sam," John barked suddenly. "List me all the cities alongside I-70 west."

Or, Sam thought with sheer animosity, maybe he'd actually been right all along and his father was nothing more than a stone-cold automaton. John'd probably been embarrassed he'd had fallen apart in front of police and tried to cover with an embrace which would be expected from any other father and son.

His phone rang, preempting his sharp and probably inappropriate response.

"Sam," John said, voice booming with intensity, "where is that call coming from?"

Sam rolled his eyes, his father's long lectures on the benefits of vibrate while on a job echoing through his ears. Whatever. It was clearly a wrong number anyway. _Thanks, jerk. Like I needed another one_.

John was still staring at him.

"I don't know," he snapped, irritation so strong he was choking on it. "660... Kentucky. Survey company."

Not caring enough for it to ring to voicemail, he hit the button long enough to hang it back up.

* * *

Dean stared at the phone in disbelief. Redialed.

* * *

"660 isn't Kentucky," John chided automatically, even as his mind went to work. "It's Missouri." Was it really going to be that easy? 

That was it. "Look," Sam exploded. "If you were anyone else, I'd know you were worried and not realizing how damn remote you are. But you know what? I don't need this right now! You sure had no problem not appearing all the other times we needed you! And Dad? We lived through them anyway. We figured out we didn't need you at all. We moved on. Maybe it's time you did the same."

The strength left John's knees and he fell back against the Impala. Sam hadn't touched him - physically _or_ mentally - but the wild hatred on his face and etched in his eyes... was this truly the little boy who'd once bragged to teachers that his father and brother were real-life superheroes?

Sam's phone rang again. John pulled himself to his feet, cold and unyielding once again. They didn't have time for adolescent grudges. _Dean_ didn't have time for adolescent grudges.

"Answer it!" he bellowed. In a showy display of compliance, Sam flicked it on.

"Yes," he drawled into the phone, twirling his finger in circles. "I'd _love_ to do a survey. I call it 'soda', doesn't everyone?"

And then his eyes widened and he almost dropped the phone. Standing eight feet away, John could clearly hear every word

_"You'd better fucking have just woken up from a fucking coma, you fucking little piece of shit!"_ Dean growled.

_To be continued._

* * *

As always, signed reviews have replies. Thanks also to dean's girl! 


	5. Chapter 5

I'm unbelievably happy so many people (Seriously, 60 reviews? Y'all rock my world!) have found this story and seem to love reading it as much as SG and I enjoy writing it. Thanks for checking us out. :)

_Chapter Five_

"Dean!" Sam blurted. Relief engulfed every inch of his body so profoundly he would've fallen clean to the ground if John hadn't all but flown to his side and reflexively managed to catch him. His father wrapped a steadying arm around his waist, but he didn't even notice. "Oh man, it's so good to hear your voice. I was so worried I just -"

"Was apparently too fucking busy to answer the phone?" his brother snarled back. "I'm so very sorry to interrupt, Sammy. Clearly whatever you're up to is more important. Tell you what. I'll just have Meg pencil in another time for me to call you back. Next Thursday sound good?"

Sam couldn't help but smile. And laugh. When was the last time he'd done either of those? "Yeah, yeah. Jerk. Where are you?"

John eavesdropped shamelessly, still supporting his son and genuinely enjoying the feeling of the boy in his arms. He could count on one hand the number of hugs they'd exchanged ever since his soulful youngest child had truly understood the shortcomings of the life he'd been forced to lead.

"Funny you should ask," Dean replied. "I'm currently standing in the beautiful two-cow town of - "

"Boonville," John cut in. Sam jumped a mile at the sight of his face next to his ear.

"- Boonville, Missouri," Dean continued, clearly not having heard his father. Sam eased himself out of John's grip, admiration for his skills warring with the virulence he felt for the man.

"_Are_ you okay?" Sam asked softly.

* * *

Dean sighed, eyes still scrutinizing the street. His little brother rarely used that tone, which was good, since he never had the heart to lie when he heard it.

"I will be," was all he allowed himself to confess, knowing Sam would hear everything he wasn't saying. _Shit._ He installed a shadow of his most maddening smirk on his face. "I've gotta tell you, Sammy, it's been pretty traumatizing."

* * *

Sam blinked. For his brother to admit that...

"I mean," Dean persisted, "here I am, standing shirtless in a town where nobody could ever get any action on a regular basis, and _no one_ has tried to ravish me yet! The hell is wrong with these people? I can't tell if they're either Amish or blind!"

* * *

Sam snorted in half-amusement and half I-can't-believe-we're-related annoyance. Dean wasn't okay, he could tell that even before he'd asked, but wasn't just in protect-the-baby overdrive either. Truthfully, that was much more than he'd expected after seeing the blood in the car.

"Jerk," he said again.

"Bitch."

John cleared his throat.

* * *

Dean froze. A five-minute jog away, someone was moving.

"Sammy, listen to me."

* * *

"It's _Sam_," his brother shot back, stepping even further away from his father. Both knew it was another how-are-you-really-doing? test.

"_Sammy_," Dean said again, passing it, "I can get on a bus or something, all right? No need to worry your pretty little head over your awesome brother."

Dean's tone had abruptly changed. Something wasn't right over there, and Dean was trying to hide it. Did his big brother honestly think he was an idiot? But if he pushed that, he knew from long experience he'd scare Dean away. "You honestly think I'm going to leave your ass out there?" he said instead. "Unsupervised? You'll scare all the townsfolk away."

Over Dean's delighted laughter, Sam shook his head. This would clam the man up, but he still needed to say it. "Dean, I've gotta say I'm sorry, man, I - "

"Let's do this later, Sammy," was Dean's short, predictable response. "As in, never. I'll see you in a few hours, all right?"

God, his brother was such a moron sometimes! "Damnit, Dean! No, it's not all right!"

John snatched the phone out of his hand.

* * *

"Dean."

He immediately straightened without realizing. The uncomfortable stance pulled, but in his shock, he failed to notice that, either. "_Dad?_" he nearly stuttered.

"Son. Where are you?"

"Pay phone on Main Street in Boonville, Missouri, about 10 minutes off I-70 West. She stole a car on the way - not sure where - but it's a white 2004 Honda with tinted windows, Missouri license plate 974 YGH. There's a small dent on the bumper and rust on the right front corner of the driver's door," he answered precisely, not even considering interrupting and asking when the man had decided to make an appearance.

The easy rapport in his tone vanished instantly, his enunciations done with military precision. "There's movement close by, but not Meg. She left me alone, but she's not stupid. I don't know how much time I have left."

* * *

John frowned. Sam had tucked his hands in his pockets, a soft smile lighting up his face as he studied the dirt, with not even a hint of a glare at the man who'd just rudely ended their conversation.

"He doesn't know," their father realized softly. "He thinks you escaped."

"That's right," Dean snapped. All unquestioning obedience fled in the face of protectiveness. "The hell is he doing there in the first place?"

John raised his eyebrows at his tone, which wasn't altogether unfamiliar. Dean had always been more of a father to Sam, and his occasional refusal to allow Sam into the more dangerous missions were often the cause of rare rifts between John and his oldest through the years.

"Dean - " _Worry about Sammy later and focus, son._

"Dad, I don't know what this is all about yet, but I know it's about Sam. She's waiting for him to get pissy enough that he's useful to her. Or something. You keep him out of this, you hear me? I don't give a shit what happens to me, but you sure as hell need to get him away. Send him back to Stanford, ship him out of the country, I don't care. Just keep him safe."

John sighed, hearing the resignation in Dean's voice. "Giving me orders, boy?" he challenged, mainly to snap him out of his funk. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught Sam raising his head and spearing him with a look even the master hunter couldn't decipher.

* * *

The response was immediate and well-practiced. "When it comes to Sam?" Dean replied, just as he always had Sam's entire twenty-two years. "Damn fucking straight, bitch."

Dean trailed off for a moment, feeling his father's sharp slap to the back of his head... and love, and hope, and regret... some 500 miles away. "Sir," he amended as an afterthought, grinning mischievously in spite of himself. "Okay. I uh, I..."

He couldn't say it. It sounded too much like goodbye.

"I'll see you soon," he choked out instead. Dean closed his eyes, hanging up the phone almost reverently. Maybe, just maybe, things would work out. A large part of him didn't believe that, but _Sam_ thought it would, even if he hadn't successfully been duped, and that was enough for Dean.

He turned, mind racing. As much as he despised getting back into his prison of a Honda, he didn't exactly see an assortment of cars to steal. Meg clearly wanted him in Lawrence, so the first item on his agenda was to drive as far as he could in the opposite direction.

And then find a shirt.

"Enjoy your chance to say goodbye, baby?"

Ah, there she was. Time to end this. Dean snapped his head up, body automatically easing into a loose fighting stance. She smiled at him brightly, arms behind her back.

"I would've given you more time," Meg informed him, almost sounding wistful, "but that's okay. Besides, we're already late."

Instinctively, Dean noticed they were no longer alone. Drawn by the curious sight of a tiny blonde hiding something behind her back and a shirtless man with a crude symbol carved into his chest and an ugly circular wound on his shoulder, two civilians were heading in their direction. He needed to wrap this up, _now_.

"She's got a gun!" one yelled.

Meg shrugged, aiming it at him. He immediately recognized his own pistol. "You take good care of it," she praised him. "You try to seem like such a bastard, but you have your moments."

The men were getting closer... he dared a step in her direction. She cocked the weapon.

"We went over this. You need me. You're not going to shoot," he said, more irritated than anything. "This is over, sweetheart."

She tilted her head to the side, watching him. He eyed her, readying himself for a few choice movements that had been ingrained him long ago. Very few could match him in hand-to-hand combat, including his father but not including Sam, who could easily toss him on his ass. But he had a height advantage, damnit.

"No, baby," she answered. "I'm not going to _kill_ you. Yet. But otherwise..."

Enough waiting. Dean sprang forward, his injuries only slightly hampering his studied, expert, deadly grace. He connected with a satisfying whack, wrestling with her for the gun.

But for all his talents, experience and training, he was only human. And currently, she wasn't.

Meg tugged herself free as if he was nothing of consequence, aimed low, and fired. Dean collapsed instantly. "Son of a bitch!" he exploded, clutching his right leg. Laughing, she kicked him cruelly in the ribs when he, incredibly, still tried to rise.

"I warned you not to yell," she taunted, resting a foot across his throat to keep him down. She aimed again even as Dean, moaning, tried to stop the leaking, shake her off of him, stand the hell up, and take it like a man. Shit! What had happened to the preserving his blood goal?

The two men racing to his aid died in two gunshots while he watched, helpless to do anything more than sprawl on the cement and curse the daylights out of her.

_To be continued._

* * *

In the mood to keep reading while you wait for the next _Counterplay_ update? (Which is being beta'd and will be up soon! Promise!) Check out the stunning _Dead Cities, Red Seas, & Lost Ghosts_ (my favorite brotherly bonding story) by the woman who introduced me (Jinnie) to the amazing Winchesters, **Kira**.

Her style of writing flows with such elegance that it's nearly lyrical. Read it, review it, tell her I sent ya. You won't regret it. :) You can find it under my Favorite Stories (linked on my profile).

Thanks again to the signed reviewers (check your email!) and Beth and Cat. Writing is fun, y'all make it a joy.


	6. Chapter 6

Dedicated to Aro! Again, **strong** language warnings. Tread carefully if that's not your thing. Thanks. :)

_Chapter Six_

John tossed Sam's phone back to him, pasting a smile on his face. "Well, son, you might as well head back and wait for your brother. I have something waiting for me in Seattle, but call me when you hear from him."

"Bullshit."

He paused, eyes cooling. "Say again?"

Dean would've straightened his body, stared over John's head, and respectfully shut the hell up. But Sam crossed his long arms over his chest and glared right back at him. The early morning sun played through his hair, illuminating him from behind. "I said _bullshit_. Dean's in Boonville. That's on the way home. She's taking him to Lawrence, you're going to follow them, and you two want me out of it." It was not a question. "I'm 22, Dad. I'm not a little kid he needs to protect anymore."

_And that was never a concern for you anyway, so let's not start now,_ John knew he was thinking. But Sam didn't say it, and he wondered at the sudden generosity.

Sam smirked. "Did I leave anything out, _sir_?"

Off John's genuine surprise, Sam shook his head. "He didn't fool me. I would be insulted, but how would you know? He needed to believe that I thought he was happy and healthy, and I need him to not be distracted so he's still breathing when I find him. But I don't think I fooled him anyway. It's kinda hard to explain, but it's what we do, and we do it well."

John just stood and observed, marveling at the lack of malice suddenly present, learning more about Sam in these mere minutes than he had the past decade. "What do you suggest, Sam?" The words were a cover, an apology he could never voice and only partly believe. But even that cost him, and both men knew the significance. For a heartbeat, John again saw the open kid Sam had once been, the same child who'd seriously asked where he kept his cape and believed his brother's glib "it comes on its own" response enough to ask when his would start to grow.

But then Sam stepped closer, eye-to-eye with the man he feared and loved and loathed, all at the same time. Dean's necklace hung conspicuously over his heart. "Dean has been there for me my entire life." The _even when you weren't_ was implied. "It's my turn to protect him. I'm going to get him back. If you're coming too, fine. If not, stay the hell out of my way." Without hesitation, he took the Impala's keys out of John's hands, hard-won maturity balancing childhood bitterness.

By the time he permitted himself to raise his eyes, the Impala humming beneath him, John was closing the passenger door.

* * *

"You - you killed them," Dean said, stunned. It vaguely occurred to him that he sounded more like his sweetly trusting brother, but he didn't care. Fucking hell, two people had just died because of him! "They didn't have anything do with this!" 

She glanced around, coolly noting that they were once again alone, before looking down at her prisoner. Dean had curled into as much as ball as she'd allowed with her foot still resting lightly on his throat, both hands clenched tightly across the newest addition to his bleeding wound collection.

She swallowed. Was this what it felt like to be afraid? Father wouldn't like her wasting the expendable-by-default Winchester like that, but it had been her only option. Even disabled, Dean was almost a worthy opponent and she couldn't allow witnesses. Her intention _was_ to leave a trail, but not a careless one. Allowing the Good Samaritans their lives was too risky, it took control away from her and gave it to them.

She paused. Why was she rationalizing? A human emotion, that, and she was beyond such uselessness.

"Let me see," she ordered, momentary distraction passing, releasing his neck and making sure she kept a firm hand on the gun. She wouldn't dare shoot him again, but he didn't know that. Dean slowly released his grip, keeping his hands where she could see them... and then lashed the bitch unhesitatingly across the face with his good leg when she bent to examine the wound. Breathing hard, he then forced both legs beneath him and jack-knifed himself to his feet in a limber move even his father could never duplicate and Meg could hardly follow. The pain from that, however, was almost as terrible as being shot in the first place, and he stumbled.

Meg rose in one fluid motion, not bothering to pretend he'd had any effect. Dean scowled, disbelieving. He hadn't even messed up her hair!

"I'm sorry, Father," he heard her say. He never even saw her move, but the shock of a drug coursed suddenly through his system and he was out before he crashed back down, landing in a heap at her feet.

* * *

"You're certain?" his father barked into the phone, dangerous anger reverberating off every inch of his battle-hardened face. He didn't hang up the phone so much as throw it back his pocket. 

"Dad?"

John didn't reply right away, hands grasping the empty air in front of him, as though he was strangling someone or something he couldn't see. "Isn't Dean's, Sam."

Sam risked taking his eyes off the busy highway for a moment. They hadn't spoken for the past two hours and his father had chosen riddles to break the silence. Typical. "What?"

His father shook his head, and Sam was suddenly very happy that the man had tagged along, because that meant Meg would pay for her crimes in ways the youngest Winchester couldn't even imagine. "Animal blood," John bit out, far too steamed to consider unneeded sentences. "_Some's_ his, but only in the letters."

Sam clenched the wheel tighter, revulsion warring with sudden relief. Neither man looked behind them, where the car went from flawless classic to sickening vampire buffet. He knew, had known from the instant they vanished, that his brother would give Meg hell, make the bitch rue the day she ever heard the name Winchester, but the horrible resignation he'd heard in what Dean hadn't been saying... despite all signs, Meg wasn't an amateur. Waste not, want not.

That could only be considered an advantage.

_Hang on, bro. We're coming._

* * *

He awoke to pitch blackness, knowing instinctively he was in a moving vehicle, trussed with that same damn cord. Whatever he lay against, it felt rough, and his brand-new blindfold was off in seconds. 

Not that it made a hell of a difference. And how she'd dumped him in the trunk without help - he assumed - was a question he'd probably never have answered.

Light escaped through the cracks, and Dean sucked in an astonished breath at the sight of his leg. "What the - " he groaned. "Oh, that _bitch_!"

She'd cut away the fabric over the bullet and carved a neat little companion to the sigil she'd already put on his chest. Dried blood traced each line. _Hell of a way to apologize_, he grimaced, remembering the last words she'd spokenWell. Yet another scar to impress the ladies.

Dean twisted his body as much as he could in the small space. His wrists and ankles were once again secured and another length of cord was wrapped around his elbows for fun, pinning them solidly to his sides and insuring he had completely no use of his bound hands. _Just perfect._ He toiled furiously, but without any leverage to take off on, or at least enough space to fully stretch out in, there was no possibility he'd break free. Damn it!

_Come on, Dean. Stop being a pussy and think_. He didn't have a habit of getting captured, especially when Sam took off and his father spent weeks away on his own cases, but the life he led was not without risks. He'd survived the vampire nest in the Poconos and the satanic cult in Oregon, he'd get through this one, too. No backup needed.

Because if he didn't, Sam would die. And that was just completely unacceptable. "You hear me?" he hollered, or at least tried to with a gag in his mouth, at Meg's general direction. "You aren't going to win!"

Reinvigorated, Dean settled in to wait for his chance to seize the advantage - knowing he would probably only get one.

But that would be enough.

* * *

John drove even faster than Dean did, singing along to the radio under his breath. 

"_... I fell into a burning ring of fire _

_... I went down, down, down _

_... and the flames went higher _

_... and it burns, burns, burns _

_... the ring of fire _

_... the ring of fire."_

He probably didn't realize he was doing it, Sam knew, and he couldn't deny feelings of nostalgia. That's how it always had been; him sitting in the back trying to do his homework on just the light from the radio numbers as Dean sat up front, navigator and protégé, while John drove and sang.

To the Winchesters, that was family bonding time, unguarded and relaxed. Considering Dean's general unease with such moments, those memories were probably why he'd turned to mullet rock. Struck by the normality of it all, he began to relax.

"Such a thoughtful boy you are!"

Sam nearly jumped out of his seat, shoving himself away out of reflex. "Holy - "

Missouri regarded him with just of hint of laughter in her eyes, though tension radiated off her stout frame. "Do I need to remind you not to cuss at me, too?"

Speechless, he stared. She sat between father and son, a visible barrier supplanting the unspoken one, arm around John's shoulders. Sam leaned forward, trying to share his concern, but John continued his Johnny Cash impersonation and tapped absorbedly on the steering wheel.

"Um," Sam faltered. "Okay. If you were a ghost he'd know, so I must be..."

"Dreaming," she filled in. "But such hero worship for him, Sammy. I know he's your father, but is that healthy?"

Sam eased himself back into place. Just great. Even his dreams had lectures.

"Surliness doesn't become you, Sam Winchester," Missouri glowered at him. "Clearly this is Dean's influence."

Sam opened his mouth - about to play along or politely ask her to let him sleep in peace, he honestly didn't know, when he noticed Missouri had paled even more after mentioning Dean's name.

"Missouri?"

When she looked at him again, there were tears running down her cheeks. Dread swelled in his stomach. _Please_, Sam thought, _let this be a boring, normal nightmare._

"I didn't know what else to do," she babbled. "This is gonna cost me, but Sammy - I had to warn you."

"Warn me?"

"Your brother. Sam, he needs your help."

The song repeated, John's voice dropping an octave.

"Um," Sam drawled, after a moment. "I know that."

She didn't smile. "Listen to me, honey. Dean is going to die. Soon."

Sam glared, mouth opening to deny it. He wouldn't lose Dean. Ever. "We'll get there in time," was all that came out, and he damned his chronic politeness.

But she hadn't seemed to hear him, body stiff with emphasis. Missouri released John's shoulder and leaned over, curling a finger around a stray hair like an indulgent aunt. "It will be hideous," she counseled, the echoes of untold horror to come ringing in his ears. "And I'm so very sorry to tell you this way."

She sounded genuinely apologetic, Sam couldn't help but note.

"But you have to let it happen, Sam," Missouri warned him, rising in fevered pitch with every word she uttered when he pointedly stared out the window. "You have to let them kill him. If you don't, if you try to stop them - "

He found tears in her eyes when he, steaming, forced himself to look over at her.

"Sam, if you stop this, you'll lose him. You understand? To save him, you can't interfere."

He shrugged violently, throwing her off him. "Who are you?" The vivacious woman they'd met would never endorse this! "_You son of a bitch! Who are you?_"

John didn't even turn in their direction.

"You don't understand," Missouri fretted with chilling finality. Like his father, she sat immune to his rage. "But you will."

_To be continued._

* * *

"Ring of Fire" written by June Carter and Merle Kilgore. Performed first by Anita Carter in 1962, and recorded by Johnny Cash a year later. Clearly, it isn't mine. Show support for one of country music's most legendary songs and find it on iTunes.

Thanks as always to my amazing reviewers (who have replies) and Nerissa!


	7. Chapter 7

Oh my gosh! 100 reviews! I love everybody. You there, sitting at your computer? I LOVE YOU! Thank you! You make this fic wonderful, and both SG and I are so grateful you stop by and read.

As always, strong language and violence warnings.

_Chapter Seven_

John checked the time again, restless and unable to hide it. Dean and the girl were close to the Kansas border by now and though Sam drove like a man possessed, it was simply taking far too long for them to catch up. Again he started to order him to pull over, and again he held back. His youngest needed this, _needed _to be the one who brought Dean home, in ways their father knew he'd never fully comprehend.

So John rode next to his son, a passenger in the very car he'd once symbolically presented to Dean, and wracked his brain for what Sam needed to hear. Something normal fathers would know to say without thought, such as _'Don't be afraid of the dark, there's nothing there!'_ or _'You got a full ride, huh? Congratulations!'_ or the millions of other phrases he'd deemed useless long ago. The price to his practicalism, he knew now, had been Dean and Sam's nonexistent childhoods. But it was also a reason why they'd lived through what they had; he couldn't truly acknowledge regret.

Even if, perhaps, he should.

He hid behind his cell phone instead and allowed blind, raw rage to take over. That some_thing_ would dare touch his sons and think he'd allow them to live through it... the first chance he got, he'd saw their fucking heads off with a plastic spoon and send the sons-of-bitches back to Hell in pieces. No one messed with his family, and especially not Dean. The boy was more of a man than he was, gladly surrendering any chance he had at a life in exchange for Sam's happiness.

However brief it had been.

John frowned at Sam's sudden muttering. His youngest continued to grip the wheel, the plastic beginning to curl under his fingers. As he watched, Sam shook his head wildly - moving the car with him.

"Sam!" he barked instantly, full attention on his son, apprehension further heightened when the boy didn't seem to hear him. Sam stared straight ahead, lips moving but no sound coming out. "Sam! Snap out of it!"

A horn blared. John tore his eyes away from his son... and realized abruptly that Sam had crossed the median... and a giant fucking truck was heading _straight toward them._

"Shit!" he exploded, diving for the wheel.

But he wasn't fast enough. At the very last second, knowing his actions were futile, John shrugged off his seatbelt and grabbed his son, nearly cradling the taller man against the leather seat, putting himself between the truck and the boy.

_Dean, I'm sorry._

The sound of steel ripping apart steel amidst the squeal of brakes tore through his senses, and consciousness fled in a haze of blood.

* * *

He'd actually managed to find a somewhat comfortable position, curling his legs up behind him and bracing his arms against the sides, lying somewhat against his back to avoid stretching his chest. It required precarious balancing and forced him to remain alert, which was probably a good thing.

She was talking, that much he could tell from what little he could hear, but her voice had utterly no inflection and he just couldn't pick out words. He sighed, again pulling against the ties, and again making absolutely no difference.

And then he landed in a tangle of limbs, slamming harshly against what felt like every damn side like a pool cue as the Honda abruptly jerked to a halt in an unmistakable squeal of brakes.

"Damn it!" he heard her yell, and another jolt earned a gasp from Dean as he thudded against the floor, his arms bending unnaturally under his full weight. With the cords holding him, redistributing himself wasn't easy. His chest throbbed, his cracked lips scraped against the gag, and his leg was an unrelenting pulse of fire. He really didn't need to add to his collection of hurts.

"Don't break," he chanted, trying desperately to rediscover his previous balance. His mouth was so dry his tongue had swollen to twice its size, but somehow talking aloud, even against the knots, helped. "Don't break don't break don't fucking break! Fuck!"

* * *

"Get away from me!" Sam hissed, cursing the lack of weapons he carried. There were theories, of course, that dreams showed the true representation of who you believed yourself to be. But his last name was a gun, damnit, why didn't his subconscious carry one?

"I will try to appear again," the thing wearing Missouri's face told him, in a show of sad reassurance. "Take care of your father, Sam."

Only when she disappeared did Sam realize someone else was trying to talk to him.

"Come on, Sammy! Sam!"

He wondering at the wetness over his eyes. Was it raining? Yet he couldn't bring himself to open them.

"Samuel John, fucking answer me right now!"

His reflexes obeyed before he fully realized it, the angry order snapping him out of his funk. "Sir?" he mumbled.

His father was off to his side... but not on the passenger side. He was pretty sure, anyway. They had to save Dean, what was he doing out of the car?

"That's it," John encouraged. "Come on, son, open your eyes for me. Please?"

It was the _please _that got to him, he could count on one hand the number of times he'd heard his father actually say it... to him and Dean, anyway. The civilians he charmed didn't count.

"Sam?" John couldn't hide his impatience.

"Okay," he sighed. Come to think of it, his arms hurt too. How odd.

* * *

"I don't know what to do, Father," Meg nearly pleaded. This was not part of the plan! They'd come too far for things to spiral out of their control! She needed to get a handle on this now, but to do that she needed to know how far the damage extended.

Her thoughts went to her cargo. If she had another captive to use, she would've. But she didn't have a choice. Shoulders set, Meg reached over and slid the dagger and cup out from under the passenger seat. And then she stepped determinedly out of the car, trunk key in hand. Dean couldn't help but blink away tears when the lid suddenly opened and harsh sunlight ripped into his eyes.

Caring little about his disorientation, Meg reached over and tangled her fingers in Dean's soldier-regulation-length hair. Quickly, she tipped his head back, exposing his throat. He tried to flinch away from her, but she was finished pretending human weakness. He wasn't moving anywhere until she allowed it.

"Just a little," she whispered aloud, possibly to Father or Dean or both. Her dagger came up, pricking underneath his chin. Dean couldn't help but swallow nervously, apparently non-fatal intentions not withstanding, that was a huge damn knife! "This won't make a difference in the ritual. I just need enough to find out - "

Even as he mentally logged her ominous "ritual" slip for future pondering, Dean still saw the approaching man before she did. He stiffened under Meg's grip, instantly trying to plan a way to keep her distracted that didn't involve yet another bleeding hole in his body. But with her standing over him, there was no way to warn the unsuspecting civilian, and the unforgiving Missouri/Kansas highway didn't exactly have any convenient trees or grass above knee level to hide behind.

_Walk away, man. For both our sakes._

"Hey, ma'am, you okay? I saw you pull off like that and - holy shit!"

Startled, Meg released Dean before the dagger bit into his flesh. She turned her back on him, knowing her helpless Winchester wasn't even a minor threat.

But he still tried anyway, reacting far faster than she ever thought possible.

"Run!" Dean managed to yell, cursing his ineptness, putting every inch of his _I'm the big brother and you'll fucking do what I say right the hell now_ Sam-voice to use. "Run now!"

Within seconds of his muffled command, the man spun around - clearly acting on reflex.

Dean fought with his exhausted, trembling muscles, trying to force his trussed legs underneath him, trying to establish some sort of control when he knew he had none, trying to fucking get his ass out of the goddamned trunk and stop the slaughter about to happen. Sensing his resistance, Meg whirled and threw him down in one blow before he achieved two inches. Taken by surprise, he landed on his carved leg and couldn't help a scream.

"Sorry, sweetheart," she dismissed, eyeing the other man attempting to get away from her. "We'll have time for that later."

Knowing she had to move fast, Meg snatched the civilian before he moved two steps and pulled him to the side of car on his knees, a smile of relief and mocking triumph on her face. The man died so quickly he doubtlessly never knew what happened.

But Dean did.

"No!" he cried in agonized fury. She'd stabbed so violently that what blood didn't land in her waiting cup splattered all over him.

Grieving, he turned away, hardly noticing the returned darkness when she slammed the trunk lid closed.

Yet another innocent dead because of him.

* * *

"I need you to tell me if you're hurt anywhere," his father said with that patented concerned/irritated that's-an-order tone he remembered so well from childhood.

Dean could match it flawlessly.

"Sam! We should go, but if you need medical attention - "

No response. Hesitantly, John opened the car door. His son still sat ramrod straight, one hand rubbing his right leg while the other protectively wrapped around his chest. The trucker had found his brakes right as John swerved away, resulting in an impact hard enough to destroy the Impala's front windshield and buckle the hood, but otherwise avoiding serious damage. Dean's baby was even still running.

"He okay?" the other driver asked, leaning casually against his barely-dented Ford, his eyes raking over Sam in a way that made John want to reach for the Glock hidden at the small of his back. Instead, he pasted a smile on his face.

"He's fine," John answered smoothly, standing solidly in front of his son. "Listen, I - "

Shrugging, the man examined the envelope stuffed with hundred dollar bills John had given him. "Insurance would screw me," he waved off. "Far as I'm concerned, this never happened. You two gonna be okay? 'Cause I got things to do - you understand."

"I do," John replied, and this time his smile of gratitude was genuine. "Drive safely..."

The man laughed, opening his door. "Tom," he filled in, giving the Winchesters one last nod before heading off.

"Missouri," Sam said from behind him. His youngest had finally climbed out of the car, scowling. Blood ran down the sides of his head.

No traffic had appeared in either direction since they'd hit, much to John's relief. The last thing Dean needed was police slowing his rescuers down. But it couldn't last.

"Yeah, still. We'll be in Kansas in a few hours. Let's get you bandaged up and then we'll head out."

But Sam shook his head, jaw tightening with determination as he fought to remember. "_She_ might know something."

He hesitated. The boy's head had smacked pretty hard against the seat when they'd hit. But the woman _was_ a psychic.

Sam reached back in the car, pulling out the boys' battered first-aid kit. John accepted his unspoken wish, pulling out his phone.

She answered on the first ring. "Hello, John Winchester."

Sam kept one ear open as he tended to his wounds. He remembered Missouri fondly, especially as one of the few women on earth Dean's charms had no effect on. Quite frankly, it'd been awhile since he'd been certain one like her existed.

How did Meg know about her? What _was_ she, to be able to appear like that?

John's short bark of annoyed laughter cut through his musings. Sam raised an eyebrow. "Dad?"

To say his father stomped back to his side would not be an understatement. "Here," John grunted, redialing as he threw.

"Hello, John Winchester," her voice greeted with absurd cheerfulness when Sam caught the phone and listened curiously. "38, -92. Let's see how _you_ like it. I'll keep an eye out for your boy. Give Sammy a hug for me and tell him I'm sorry."

Sam found his father seated behind the wheel and glowering at the dashboard. In spite of everything, he had to bite his lip to stop probably suicidal chuckles from escaping. After all, Missouri would watch out for Dean, and Sam could almost pity Meg for that. Things were going to be okay. White always had a slight advantage over black. Damn it, he was going to win this game.

Memories of the non-dream were beginning to penetrate the haze which had surrounded him after the accident, but for now...

"Columbia is two hours away," John informed him, not bothering to check a map for either time estimates or coordinate validation. "Seat belt."

Sam buckled. They drove on.

* * *

"You are a disgrace, Meg"

She avoided the urge to cower, hardly able to look him in the eye. "I brought you the other one," she dared to remind him. Dean Winchester remained trapped in the trunk, a gift for the hitchhiker she'd picked up along the way. Through it all, he continued to defy her. She didn't know whether to be frustrated or impressed. Perhaps she'd been too set on Sam's importance to see the rare man his big brother truly was.

And not just because his coming death would give them what they'd sought for twenty long years.

"You subdued the sacrifice and wasted it with pathetic blunders caused by your own human weakness," he corrected. "You forced me to intervene and exert myself to suppress the psychic's meddling on the prize, yet still allowing John Winchester to draw breath." His voice grew louder every word he spoke, the temperature noticeably rising with his growing rage.

Locked away, trying in vain to loosen his bonds, Dean froze at the new voice speaking his father's name.

"Tom - " Meg pleaded. _Father._

"Do not disappoint me again."

_To be continued._

* * *

SG and I apologize for the unscheduled delay in updates! There's real-life stuff, but we're determined to hold to our once-a-week-at-least promise. :) Also, signed reviewers have replies. Thanks to sexybeast and dustori! 


	8. Chapter 8

Dedicated to Nerissa, sorry hon! My apologies for the delay. More after what really matters:

_Chapter Eight_

John drove even faster than Dean did.

Research done, Sam sat quietly, flinching with every unnatural shudder. When he got his brother back, he'd be doing laundry and washing the Impala for _years_ to make up for it. And knowing Dean, he'd never be allowed behind the wheel ever again. Hell, his brother would probably make him ride in the trunk the first few jobs. If he was lucky.

"Sam?"

That, too, was new. John's eyes were pointedly forward when Sam looked, but if he appeared to be in deep thought for more than a few seconds, his father would draw him out of it. "I'm okay, Dad," he answered for possibly the hundredth time.

John didn't reply, eyebrows arched with skepticism.

"It's a restaurant we're going to pass soon," Sam filled the silence. He held up his notes, written on stained paper he'd found under the seat. "They answered 'Heavenly Ham'." Dean's necklace tapped his chest when he leaned forward, only further illustrating his strong, reassuring brother's absence. It was just a few miles ahead, but could they afford the extra time? Could _Dean_ afford it? "Dad - "

John held the wheel tighter. "Sam, we're going."

The notes flew off his lap, stained-red paper floating ludicrously around his head like bloody snowflakes from the speed his father was coaxing out of the Impala. "Pull over," he barked, the sheer ridiculousness of his nerve bothering him not a whit.

Predictably, John ignored him. The paper settled with soft crinkles at their feet.

Sam swallowed. This was gonna cost him a shitload of hell... but if it saved Dean, so be it. "I _said_ pull over," he repeated, his voice rising an octave. If he had to rip the keys out of John's hands, so be it.

"What do you remember?" his father countered, the question so oddly out of place that Sam stared at him, slackjawed, for ten full seconds. His father remained rigidly focused on the road in front of them, but Sam scanned his profile, noting the broad shoulders, the unruly dark hair, the light cleft in his chin, the intense, almost nervous, abnormal shaking in John's hands...

His father was hiding something from him.

"What?" Sam stalled. "What are you talking about?"

The corners of John's mouth bunched. "Your dream, Sammy. What do you remember?"

* * *

She looked like an eager little girl at show and tell. The last time he'd seen her expression, Sammy had been wearing it and telling the second-grade class his big brother was a power ranger.

"It was easy," Meg gloated to Tom. They stood together over the open trunk, peering down at their captive. "Disappointing, really. If John Winchester is as good as they say he is, why would his eldest allow himself to be taken so easily?"

_Because you're a bitch who hides behind innocent victims._ Dean glared back, biting against the knots, tensing helplessly while they studied him like a piece of meat. His memories were somewhat hazy, but he remembered her cold hands crushing his arm as she effortlessly pulled him to his feet, snapping the rope holding him to the pillar, and Sam's horror as he watched him attempt to fight her and instantly lose. Her icy _cooperate or Sammy dies before I take you anyway _whisper in his ear, and the terrible, blinding pain in his head right before she'd tied him up and thrown him down on the backseat had ended any thought of further resistance.

And he remembered too the horrible sadness on Sam's face when the bitch had named his big brother as John's only weakness. Fucking ridiculous, that. Dean had grown up as handy bait for John's hunts, knowing fully his role as son was secondary. Sam, meanwhile, was his father reborn. He hoped Sam had figured that out by now. He hoped his father was for once playing the role of mentor to the younger man. He hoped John kept Sam the hell away from everything. And he hoped there really was a Heaven, because while it was doubtful he'd ever end up there, Sam would.

Tom leaned down, running his hand over the bloodlines on the sacrifice's abdomen. It tensed under the gentle touch, a combination of revulsion and annoyance apparent, but he paid it no mind. The Winchester was there solely to die at his hand, its emotions or otherwise existence were utterly irrelevant.

"Soon," he murmured, tracing the still-crusting sigil. The wound would never have a chance to heal, and that pleased him.

"We should get inside," Meg timidly interrupted his inspection. "All the other houses are occupied."

Tom wrapped one hand around the boy's throat and fetched him in one smooth motion.

Meg smiled to herself, watching Dean wheeze in Tom's grip. She cut the bindings pinning his arms to his sides - they'd be the most noticeable, and collateral damage could delay the ritual. Father dragged him toward the house without remorse, his speed far surpassing human capabilities. Through sheer force of will, Dean straightened his bound legs against the dying grass, pushing himself up and supporting some of his own weight, cooperating enough to avoid choking to death - but only just. Tom stopped at the doorway and released him, a smile spreading across his face.

Here at last.

Meg opened the door. "In," she ordered Dean, who couldn't help his responding sardonic smirk. What'd she want him to do, hop inside?

Standing at Dean's back; a cold, unyielding wall hemming him in, Tom glowered impatiently. The cords fell off Dean's ankles and skittered away at a mere gesture from Meg's new cohort, nervous snakes acknowledging the presence of one better. Startled at the prickly sensation rippling through his bare feet and with his hands still uselessly tied behind him, Dean staggered and came dangerously close to falling.

"Walk, baby," she warned him, duly impressed. Dean somehow righted himself without any offered support. "Now. Or you can make a scene, and we'll kill anyone who even thinks of looking in this direction. Your choice."

Dean set his jaw, forced his breaths to regulate, and managed a tremulous step forward onto the landing; a lamb depositing itself for slaughter. Only then - first demand of the ritual fulfilled - did his captors again grasp his arms.

* * *

Sam bit down hard, squelching his immediate explosion of questions. John stared at him, a combination of stoic hope and shuttered pessimism warring on his face. Most recently, that earnest expression had taken over his father's face when Dean had called... and he'd blown off his older brother in a show of immaturity.

_Give him a chance, Sam_, he told himself. Two steps forward, ten steps back. Such was life with John Winchester. But right now, those two steps would lead him to Dean. "I don't know - " he spoke slowly, grimacing at the flashes of memory shooting randomly through his brain. "It's like... it's like I have two different memories for the same dream," he tried to explain. "I see one and it ends with another. I just..." he had to ask. "How'd you know?"

He didn't specify, but John knew what he was asking. He always did. He just chose not to act on his knowledge.

This wasn't any different.

"You were talking in your sleep," he lied. Heavenly Ham beckoned. Quietly relieved at the automatic deflection, John parked and folded the keys into his pocket.

His son nodded to himself, and didn't challenge him. It occurred to John such a reaction - a typical response from Dean, not Sam - was not something he should be grateful for. Dean may have dragged Sam back into action, but John had hunted this thing for more than two decades.

_I went to Missouri and I learned the truth. _

* * *

Half-led, half-shoved, Dean spent the first few minutes racing mentally through alternating solutions, trying desperately to find a way to save the lives of Jenny and her two children... only to find his worry was unnecessary. Dust rose from the carpet with every step, the sound of Dean's jeans scuffing the floor enough to echo off the empty walls.

"They left on their own, baby," Meg said, anticipating his question. "This has nothing to do with them."

She gave him a reassuring smile, even as she and her buddy dragged him up the stairs to kill him. Like the rest of his childhood home, it was empty except for the flooring.

"Now..." Meg murmured. They stopped at the top, holding Dean securely between them. She let her gaze peruse each door, stopping meaningfully on Sam's former nursery. Dean watched them, waiting until Tom joined her.

And then he lashed out with a vicious kick aimed at Meg's knee. She went down with a shout of surprise or agony, he couldn't tell which and he certainly wasn't waiting to figure it out. Wrenching himself out of Tom's distracted grip, Dean dove backwards, using his somewhat painful tumble down the stairs to roll and move his bound hands in front of him. His leg threw off his landing, but he still managed to end up on his feet. With a silent prayer to whoever was listening, Dean lunged for the open front door.

It closed on its own before he could reach it. Not slowing down, Dean threw himself against the painted wood. Nothing. He hit it again, harder, wondering if he'd just dislocated his shoulder. It didn't even shake from impact. He may as well have been pounding himself into stone.

"You just had to try," Meg called from upstairs. Her hands were casually in each pocket, but there was nothing human in her cold blue eyes.

Ignoring her, Dean rushed the nearest window and gave it a sharp kick. But if anything, the solidness of the clear pane was more than the door. Hell, had he just broken his foot?

"Not enjoying our time together, baby?"

She sounded closer and limping, Dean edged back, the coolness of the wall against his back somewhat calming. There was no sign of Tom, but he had to be around somewhere.

He rubbed his wrists together, grimacing when the cords failed to grant him even an inch of clearance. At least he could _finally_ yank the gag out of his mouth. "Aw, come on," he protested to keep her occupied. "Hardly a fair fight, sweetheart."

Meg shrugged, all but materializing in front of him. "You're the son of the mighty John Winchester and I'm just a little girl in a big, bad world," she quipped, unblinking stare making the hair on the back of his neck rise. "Gotta even the odds somehow."

Rolling his eyes, Dean wondered if she still had the dagger somewhere on her. If he moved fast enough, could he find it and free his hands before she wiped the floor with him?

Meg turned her head, a frown marring her features. He followed her gaze warily.

"Stop this at once," Tom snapped. "I cannot risk your damaging the sacrifice. You've wasted it enough."

"Hey," Dean shot back, rolling on the balls of his feet and consciously preparing himself for one hell of a probably one-sided fight. So be it. At least he'd die swinging. "Name's Dean, you son of a bitch."

The other man didn't move, glowering at him with the same agelessness Meg was. Quite frankly, it was beginning to piss him off.

* * *

Out of habit, John plunged through first. Sam barely crossed the threshold before the veteran hunter, eyes the only moving part of his body, had automatically cased the room, noting the number of people, security cameras, restrooms, unnatural-in-daylight shadows, number of exists, possible hostiles, movement obstacles, best places for surveillance...

For his part, Sam strolled up to the waiting greeter immediately, clearly eager to cut their travel interruption short. He could almost hear Dean's indignant '_You fucking stopped for lunch?'_

They requested the closest table to the door; John neatly maneuvering his youngest son so he sat between Sam and the rest of the restaurant at large. Probably unnecessary, but they'd all survived by learning the art of caution. Once again, Sam didn't protest and once again, John wondered what was going on in the boy's head. Contrary to his sons' beliefs, he didn't have all the answers.

There was a crack in the wood in front of him, Sam noted, absurdly soothed by the table's soft imperfection. To a life where breathing was sometimes a mere strategy, this was nirvana. For an instant, he could feel Missouri's soft fingers in his hair, hear the softness in her voice. It lasted for a mere second before his mind flashed to Meg's leering face and he heard Dean's agonized screams, felt his brother's blood splash on his face. '_Sammy, help me!'_

Should he try to remember the dream or the nightmare?

Dean would _never_ say that to him. Ever. Hell, the man had recently refused any assistance after nearly dying from a massive heart attack. Dean valued personal strength more than money, especially in the face of his little brother trying to tend to him. To Dean, Sam would always be the baby he'd carried out of the fire.

"You guys ready to order?"

Sam snapped back to attention, just missing John's concerned stare as it disappeared behind his father's usual mask of keen disinterest. He knew that voice.

"Sam? Sam Winchester? Oh my God, how've you been?"

They were right to come here. Rocked to the core, Sam knew that now. In his life, there was no such thing as a coincidence. He pasted a smile on his face, eyes bright with curious warmth. Why was the woman who'd moved into their old house standing in front of him?

"Hello, Jenny."

* * *

This chapter will be my cowriter's swan song - he is relocating and thus has no time for fic. (I lectured him about priorities, but he refused to listen. Hmmph.) You will still see some of his work in the future (Dean) parts he'd already finished, but otherwise: Hi, I'm Jinnie, and I'll be your solo _Counterplay_ author from now on. How're you?

Of course, that means I can't blame him now for updates! My tremendous thanks for your patience. I am in the process of finding a beta (and getting to know Dean), but the next chapter is already halfway done and will be up next Saturday. See you then, and thanks for your reviews in the meantime! (And thanks to **Nerissa**, kale, Devorah, xx and dustori!)


	9. Chapter 9

**Disclaimer** (better late than never, right?): These characters are not mine. The plot is. Also, money? What's that? The end.

Please note this is an AU fic which may or may not resemble the amazing season finale. Thanks to my brand-new beta **relativity1953**! This chapter is dedicated to the incredibly sweet**carocali**, **H.T.Marie**, and **BEKi of Dorvan**, who were my muses while I was blocked.

_Chapter 9_

"Imagine the odds!" Jenny gushed. "What on earth are you doing all the way out here?" Her voice dropped. "Working?"

"Something like that," Sam smiled, dropping the subject with practiced ease. To her credit, she went along with him. "Oh," Sam remembered, glancing at his father. John was watching them with an expression so inscrutable he couldn't help but what wonder what he'd done now. "Jenny, this is - "

She was open, trusting, chipper... and hiding something. John could feel it. His son laughed along with her, clearly charmed into distraction. He sighed. He'd taught his boys better than that.

"John Winchester," she cut in, remembering. He shook her hand, out of habit drudging up a smile Dean had virtually inherited; little bit of _you know I'm gorgeous_ and little bit of _so are you, play your cards right and maybe we'll get to know each other_. Some of her own medicine and damn near irresistible, even for an honorable woman like Jenny, who both men noticed was sporting a new ring on her finger.

Sam stared at them both, open-mouthed. He could count on one hand the number of times his father introduced himself with his real name. Obsession for revenge often conflicted with standard human laws, if nothing else.

"Ms. Willits told me she'd given you both some of our old pictures," John said, anticipating Sam's questions. _There was no reason to lie._

He nodded.

"Mrs. Richardson, actually," Jenny amended easily, oblivious to the undercurrents of tension radiating from the two men. She couldn't help posing her ring in front of her, a soft smile on her face. Sam returned it almost reflexively. She'd been a strong, unshakeable mother before, but she'd clearly found her peace.

He couldn't help but envy her for that.

"Congratulations," he told her, meaning it. "So... what brings you to Columbia?"

He caught his father shaking his head, exasperated. Subtle he wasn't.

* * *

"Dean, baby, you can't win this. You do know that, right?"

He ignored her, body tense and ready. "Come on!" he snapped at her boytoy.

And then he was flying across the room, slamming mercilessly against the wall farthest from where he'd been standing seconds earlier. His head collided against the plaster with a dull thud, and he saw sparks of light through bleary eyes. Stunned, he slid back down and couldn't help a groan.

But he still forced himself into motion when he sensed their approach, even as he wondered what the hell he was doing. He couldn't leave the house, and unarmed, he didn't stand a chance at pretty much anything. Essentially, all he accomplished was pissing them off.

He could live with that.

Tom sprang for him, his motions once again almost too fast for Dean to see at all. His lips moved almost soundlessly, whispering a generic protection chant he'd learned before Sammy started walking. A lifetime ago, he'd recited it every night before crawling into the baby's crib to sleep; the Winchester version of a prayer. Predictably it didn't do much, but it was enough to slow Tom down while Dean dove and full-body tackled Meg, bound hands and all. Another wall beckoned, he braced himself, knowing their combined weight would probably be enough to go straight through it, which was gonna fucking hurt.

Impact never happened. One minute Dean was careening toward it, the next; unseen hands planted themselves on his shoulders and yanked him back, pressing him against the ceiling, wholly unable to move at all. In a show of power, Tom let him dangle there for a heartbeat, the message clear, before gesturing and hurling Dean up the stairs, throwing him clear through the door of Sam's nursery.

He was unconscious before he landed, skidding to a halt on the uncarpeted floor.

* * *

"... didn't want to leave at first, but Kevin was based out of here and had just franchised this place, so the time felt right," Jenny babbled cheerfully. "But yeah, it's still empty. Silly as it sounds, I feel like I earned that house. I'm not just ready to give it up, you know?"

"I do," Sam acknowledged, with far too much emotion in his voice. To Dean and Dad, Lawrence would always be home. But to him, it was where any chance for normalcy had been forever lost.

And even as he smiled and responded in all the right places, Sam knew, beyond a doubt, that the woman in front of him was hiding something.

"You'd just moved in," John went along, giving Sam a pointed glare that said _pay attention_. "So it was probably easy to move."

Jenny laughed, tucking her order pad into her dark gray apron. "Manner of speaking. Kevin was off touring for more franchises, so the kids did the easy stuff and Missouri and I handled everything else."

The noise surrounding them increased, the lunch crowd attacking with a vengeance. Jenny shook herself out of her reverie. "Do you guys want to start with - "

"Missouri?" John cut in. Sam could hear his father's intensity, his instant focus. But to anyone happening to listen in, the man could be asking about the special for all his nonchalance.

For just a tiny flicker of time, Jenny's eyes widened. _Shit._

"You know her?" she filled time stupidly. Sam dropped his head, lips pressed together, the twinned memories of his dream filling his mind.

John's smile was pure _gotcha_. "She was a friend of mine when my son was still in diapers," he drawled, earning a look of horror from Sammy. "You know, I'm sorry to cut and run, but we have to go."

Sam stood up before he did.

* * *

"Do you think we stalled them enough?"

The Winchesters were long gone. Jenny hadn't lasted another hour into her shift, her mistake replaying mercilessly in her head. She stood frozen in the doorway, staring in dumbstruck uncertainty at the woman waiting on her couch.

Missouri sighed deeply, arms open wide. "Come here, child."

Jenny accepted the hug, aware that somewhere in it she started to cry. "I didn't know what to say," she wept. "Oh God, I hope we did the right thing! They saved my life, and my kids' lives, and I just feel like - I just feel like I'm repaying Dean by stabbing him in the back. Why couldn't we - oh God, why didn't we just tell them?"

She stepped away from the older woman, anguish twisting her features. "I know what John is going through because when Dean pulled me out of my room that night and I knew my kids were in trouble... I just... if something happened to _my_ son..."

Missouri took her by the shoulders, grim and resolute. "Exactly." Jenny bit down on her lip, averting her eyes. "Honey, if someone came up to you, even someone you know, and told you that one of your babies was going to be tortured to death and you absolutely couldn't do anything if you wanted to save them, you wouldn't be able to hear it," she murmured gently, a shiver running down her spine as she pictured John's wild, uncontrolled rage. _Little girl, you have no idea who you're dealing with._

Jenny couldn't fathom the thought. Behind her, Sari yelled out gleefully, the innocent sound of the little girl's joy soothing her terror.

"That little family is very precious to me, too," Missouri reminded her quietly, "and when I think about what that boy is going to endure - what they _all_ are going to go through, it just rips me up inside. But honey, that's the only way we're going to see all of them again. You did what you had to do, and you saved Dean Winchester's life in the process. You hear me? Those boys got you out that night, and you just rescued those boys for their father. You did the right thing here, Jenny."

She nodded. She wasn't convinced and wouldn't be until all three stood in front of her. But she nodded.

* * *

"I know I promised you a fast death, but that was before you kicked me in the face," Meg tsked at him when he eventually blinked himself awake. "This is much more fitting. Consider yourself privileged, baby. Most people never know when their end comes, but you? You have six hours left. At least. Any plans?" 

_Just get on with it already, _Dean thought, irritated. Tom reappeared in the doorway. Refusing to turn his head, or show any reaction whatsoever, Dean still caught sight of the tools in his hands. His stomach lurched involuntarily.

She knelt down to where he lay shackled spread-eagled on the floor, running a hand through his hair. "Scared, baby?" she whispered, voice falling into the same seductive range he vaguely recalled from Chicago. "That's okay. Sammy isn't here, you don't have to be brave for anyone now. It's just us."

Dean closed his eyes, not dignifying her with a response. Tom lit a fire somewhere nearby and carelessly tossed something - or some _things_ - into it. Bathed in sweat, he couldn't help but grimace. At this rate, they'd burn through the floorboards and never have a chance to sacrifice him before the fall killed him.

Perversely, the thought pleased him.

"I've killed so many people," she whispered, drawing imaginary lines over his brightest veins and arteries. "But I've never really talked to one before while I did." She cocked her head, smiling perkily. "Never cared. Maybe it's time for change. What do you think, Dean? If all this hadn't happened and Sam was just Joe College, would he have been into me?"

His eyes snapped open, and the fire burning within rivaled the growing one behind them. "Fuck. You." Dean rasped. "Are you going to kill me, sweetheart? Or just bore me to death? Just so you know, I vote for Plan A."

She shrugged, nearly shaking with glee and satisfaction. The time for cutesy talk was over. Bloodlust roared in her ears. "Goodbye, Dean."

In response, he spat at her. She smirked, eyes locked on his...

... until Tom stepped forward, movements utterly precise, and stabbed a flaming knife shallowly into the sigil on Dean's chest, slowly repeating Meg's slices, taking care his thrusts drew desired amounts of blood before the heat cauterized the victim's wounds closed. After a moment, she picked up another one from where it rested in the fire and joined him. Again the daggers stabbed, and again the cuts eventually sealed themselves. They'd bleed him dry eventually, but they'd earned a little fun before then.

Six hours and counting.

The room stank of burning flesh, and his scorched blood sizzled like acid against his skin. The screams torn from Dean's throat were only the beginning.

* * *

FYI: Starting next chapter, _Counterplay_'s rating will go up to M for violence and considerable torture. (Missouri is never wrong). Rest assured, whatever happens is for plot. (And not Wincest, slash, PWP or other such things). I'm pretty sure your alerts won't be affected, but if you have them set to only send for T-on-down rated stories and are still interested in mine, you may wish to consider editing those settings. :)

Also, I try not to ever beg for feedback or anything like that, but since this _was_ my first solo chapter, I'd love to know your thoughts. Thanks! (And also, thanks to anon reviewers kale and Nerissa! As always, signed reviews have replies!)


	10. Chapter 10

Dedicated to Grace, the coolest librarian EVA.

_Chapter 10_

He wasn't going to beg, Dean vowed. They wouldn't get the fucking satisfaction.

Both Meg and Tom chanted softly with each slash, the words cutting through Dean far more than any knife strokes. He couldn't understand them, but somehow he knew the intent. _Oh God, Sammy._

Tom's fire simmered somewhere nearby, the heat from its gathering strength causing the blades to occasionally slide against his sweat-slicked skin and plunge in deeper than probably intended at this point. Dean arched his back, twisting his weakening body against the chains, his ragged cries and curses increasing in both volume and hysteria. Still fighting, useless as it was.

He could feel the two daggers begin to cool, his wounds gradually remaining open. The soldier in him, unaffected by mind traps such as pain, noted they hadn't touched his heart or his throat, favoring not-too-shallow-not-too-deep incisions which bled freely and hurt like a _fucking son of a bitch fuck!_ but didn't endanger his life.

Yet.

Tom reached down, grasping the sacrifice's chin in a tight, unyielding grip, digging his fingers into its jaw to hold its mouth open. The boy gasped against the smoke gradually flooding the room, struggling wildly.

But there was no escape.

"Sonuvabitch!" Dean yelled, or tried to, his unsteady breaths erupting into coughs. He pulled against his restraints again, his hands curled into fists.

Meg shrugged, sliding the blade into the now-conspicuous veins along his arms, smiling at the darker red flow. Shock from that sent Dean into mumbling paralysis, his body beginning to shake uncontrollably.

Tom handed his knife to his sister, breathing deeply in preparation before yielding the human meat sack to the far more powerful presence waiting hungrily in the wings. _Come, Father. Come and drink._

Come, he did. Meg watched with reverence. "Hello, Father," Dean heard her whisper, watching with disbelief as she paused between stabs to bow her head in greeting. He squinted blistered eyes, wincing with the effort. Were there two people killing him, or three? Suddenly, he wasn't sure.

Father sharpened, his terrible presence enhancing at every desperate wheeze from the dying Winchester beneath them all. Flames sprang into his eyes. "Fun little gambit," he quipped. Chuckling, Father drank his first fill of the little pawn's flickering essence with much less mercy than any Shtriga offered victims.

They were stealing far more than blood.

* * *

"So. What do you know that I don't?"

John sat stiffly, back ramrod straight. Both all but heard the _Dad doesn't have all day to answer that, Sammy_ favorite Dean peacekeeping retort the absent Winchester would've instantly interjected, the unescapable void ripping Sam's heart in two more than any knife could've.

Their father pressed his lips together, bloodshot eyes smoldering, white-knuckled hands creating a groove in the leather steering wheel as he gripped it.

"Fine. Next question. How much of this really is my fault?" _You're going to talk me, Dad, whether you want to or not. _

Jenny had vanished inside her door moments before, failing to notice the classic car parked just inside nearby shadows. Not a surprise, no one could see John Winchester when he didn't wish it. His head finally snapped toward his youngest child, but he still held his tongue.

"'I went to Missouri, and I learned the truth'," Sam quoted, keeping his tone even and eye contact unyielding. He'd had plenty of practice with Dean, even if his older brother was a weepy share-it-all compared to John. "_What_ truth, Dad?"

Silence.

"Because you know what I think?" Tears stung his eyes despite his best efforts, but he didn't care. "I think that demon wanted me when it killed Mom and Jessica. Or something about me. I think Dean figured out what you're not telling me, and that's why he pulled his bullshit 'I'm fine' act when he called. I think we're sitting here, tracing a lead we _already know_, because you're out of ideas to stall. Am I right? Need-to-know and all that. Because if we got there too early, something would happen. And you don't want that, huh Dad? Because if it got me, you'd lose your chance to blow it away. Forget your son, we can't have the mighty John Winchester actually not kill something!"

A memory tugged at Sam's consciousness, something about Missouri with her arm over his father's shoulders. He ignored it willfully. He didn't believe everything he was saying - _mostly_ - but he'd get his father to tell him _something_, damnit.

"You know what, Dad? I think you were in Lawrence before, possibly even when Dean called." Off his father's look, he nodded grimly. "Dean told me he'd used up all pussy moments for the year in that one voicemail. You came, didn't you? But instead of, oh, I don't know, saying hello, you stood back and watched. You _used _that family's trauma just like the demon used ours, you _son of a bitch_. And for what? An experiment? 'How Far Dean and Sam Will Go', right? You couldn't control me anymore, so you found out everything you need to me about me there instead! How'd I do?"

John forced himself to start the engine with one hand and drop the other, fist clenched, in his lap. He'd never once laid a hand on his boys. He wasn't about to start now.

"Say something!" Sam exploded, giving up on subtle prodding. _Something, Samantha_, Dean's voice zinged in his ear.

John pulled out smoothly, gunning the engine out of habit. When he finally did speak, it was enough to send Sam's anger spiraling away in the face of confusion.

"Did your brother ever tell you we visited Stanford sometimes?"

* * *

Insanely, Dean realized, he was thirsty. Very, very thirsty. _Probably not a very good sign_, he decided. 

"Meg - " he managed to choke out. Tom or Toms or whatever the fuck Meg's boytoy was had abruptly turned back to manage the fire, leaving just her to gut him like a fish.

Meg ran her hand lovingly down the numerous gashes slashed over Dean's abdomen, each one slightly deeper than the preceding others. They bubbled with each hesitant breath he took.

"Sweetheart - "

She pursed her lips, meeting his glassy eyes. "Yes, baby?" she cooed, leaning over, her voice a mockery of gentle sympathy. Her hair lightly brushed the tip of his nose.

Dean blinked, forcing moisture to spill out. And then he smiled. Not a smirk or even his famous, flippant half-grin Sam equally admired and despised, but a real one. With teeth. "Do you - " he had to stop, gasping. Every word sent agony shivering into his lungs. " - do you think I could get some water?"

Meg studied him in clear disbelief.

"Or some whiskey," he ground out, shrugging as much as his stretched limbs allowed. "Or you know, some morphine. Hell, even coffee. Black. Any of those would be fine."

In response, she grasped one of the knives, rage twisting her features, and drove it down into Dean's left hand, neatly impaling it against the floor. He couldn't stop the scream even if he'd wanted to.

"You just don't know when to quit, baby!" she sneered.

Tom appeared at her side, annoyance in his tight posture. Dean cried out again. It'd hurt going down, but it was almost worse when Tom yanked the steel blade back out without so much as a blink in warning.

"Sorry," Meg sulked as they once again knelt facing each other, Dean's blood soaking their jeans. Tom shook his head. Distraction averted, they got back to work. Life poured out of the sacrifice like water, stopping abruptly at the seal carved into the floor that surrounded Dean's body. Soon he lay in a circle of red, ringed by insistent fire.

* * *

"I talked to your teachers," John confessed. Each word made the following one easier. "Dean even took a day - I think a week or so after you started, you weren't dating Jessica yet - and followed you around the campus, just so he'd always know where exactly where to find you if we had to. We kept up on your grades, read your term papers... usually couldn't follow a lot of them, but we still tried." 

Sam stared at him.

"I even - " his voice grew softer. "I even met Jessica, when Dean was out on a hunt. She was a great k - woman, Sam. Didn't tell her who I was, think she thought I was a guidance counselor. She laughed a lot. It reminded me of your mom, sometimes, the way she'd smile and light a room up without realizing it."

Sam's eyes filled with tears.

"She told me all about her boyfriend, said he was a 'genius with passable hair'. She was happy, and I knew that if she was, you were. That's all we needed to know. Dean didn't come with me after I told him that, think he thought he didn't need to anymore, but I still went once a month or so. Not sure about him. We were hunting separately a lot towards the end."

John took a deep breath, glancing at the passing mileage sign. _Lawrence 47_, it read He couldn't remember the last time he'd strung so many words together and actually meant every one.

"You both have grown up to be the kind of men your mom and I dreamed of. I know that's not because of me at all, but that's okay. I'm still proud of you, son. Do I know more about what's going on? Yes. But Sam - " John risked taking his eyes off the road for just a moment. "You _can't _know. I know I've given you another reason to be pissed at me. But I don't care. We're talking about your brother's life here, and - "

"You don't need to remind me," Sam shot back, but there was no ire in his voice, his father's quiet pride in him enough to quell his usual resentment. John had never told him that before. He'd probably said it to Dean numerous times, but to actually hear those words directed at him... a wave of peace enveloped him.

The mats Sam had unknowingly been raising behind their seat as his frustration grew fell back to the floor of the car, impact inaudible.

"I'm getting my son back, and you're getting your brother back," John finished evenly. "However we have to."

* * *

Somewhere along the way, he'd lost his pants. Dean drew in a sharp breath against vocal chords long worn down as cool steel began ripping apart his thighs. Oddly, the new tears in his body were almost a relief; it felt like the heat surrounding him had shrunk his skin over his bones, pressing down with painful intensity almost more agonizing than his current murder-in-progress. On a whole, he was decidedly too _tight _and _itchy_. 

He blinked eyes which grew heavier with every drop of lost blood, struggling to hang on, stubbornly waging a war he'd lost the second shadows tied him to a pillar in Chicago. He was still Dean Winchester and dying or not, the evil sons of bitches would pay for this. Dearly.

But this time, he wouldn't be the one collecting. At least Sam wasn't there and wouldn't be coming. Dean thanked whatever god was listening for that.

Tom grasped his jaw again, his changing eyes and entire demeanor suddenly turning him into another person-thing-person entirely. With supreme effort, Dean withheld the whimper wanting desperately to escape. Whatever the fuck that was, it was far worse than anything else they'd done to him. All exaggeration aside, were they draining a part of... a part of... his soul, his essence, his Oprah-Defined Presence-of-Being? Were they draining away _Dean_?

Feeling more than a little absurd, Dean swallowed, tried to close his mouth, set mental barrier after mental barrier. They would not take him from himself, and that was final! He could do that just fine on his own, thanks very much.

Didn't work, of course. Meg continued to cut him, diligently taking every available drop of blood while smiling all the way through, and Tom... Tom _drank_.

Meg twisted her lips. "Much longer this time," she scowled when Tom - not _Father_ but Tom, her silently efficient 'brother' - raised his head and released Dean's to fall back on the floor like a stone, lips stained white. Tom leaned over, removing the shackles. Freedom of movement was merely a memory to the sacrifice now, and soon he wouldn't even have those. Ignoring her pout entirely, he drew his knife across Dean's now-unblocked wrists, preening at the lush new flow - his first easily readable facial expression since he'd crossed paths with John Winchester's perfect son.

"Careful!" she admonished. Tom pressed down hard against the wounds, milking the blood. Dean moaned, a terrible stillness beginning to creep over his form. He'd yet to open his eyes, Meg realized, and the chances were currently strong he never would again. "Slow down! He's got at least an hour left, and if we rush the ritual..."

In response, Tom reached under the boy's much-bruised jawline, using his thumb to gently tip its head upright. Almost casually, he adjusted his grip. He couldn't cut too deeply, after all. A dead sacrifice was not yet useful.

Meg sighed deeply in surrender, her dagger resting parallel to his. They worked together, blades moving in opposite directions.

Neatly slitting Dean's throat.

_To be continued._

* * *

The saga about why this (unbeta'd, due to circumstances, but I still love you Susan!) chapter was so delayed (it's been finished for almost a month), would be as long as what you just read (and since this is my longest chapter yet, that's saying something!). Suffice to say the time passed included a two-week vacation and coming home to find my lovely parents had disconnected the internet. To get this posted, I had to shamelessly, and over a long period, schmooze a librarian into giving me an exemption to the strict, paranoia-based rules my library system maintains about uploading. 

I further apologize for the lack of review responses, my internet time is limited (literally, and includes a countdown at the top of the screen). Know that I adore and appreciate each one, and your kind generosity in those is the reason why I tried so hard to get this chapter up (and will try again for the next one!).

The next chapter is about halfway done. My former cowriter (on this, though we're also brainstorming a possible follow-up) is even pitching in, again due to circumstances. We think there's about two more chapters and an epilogue. See you soon. ;)


	11. Chapter 11

**Chapter 11**

_Honey, I need you to listen._

Dean took a break between gasps for breath to moan. Loudly. Not just because it was currently easier to breathe using his open throat - but because of whose voice he suddenly heard in his head.

_Focus on me._

Great. Just fucking great. The woman had despised him on sight, but now that he was dying, she was the most supportive person there? Surely God didn't hate him _that_ much.

_Dean! Do I have to make it an order? You always responded well to those._

"Dad?" he mumbled, eyes open but unseeing. He couldn't feel his body, couldn't feel anything at all anymore. Not altogether unpleasant. It had stopped hurting somewhere around the last twenty minutes.

But he was still dimly aware of Meg's sharp attention. Figuratively and… otherwise.

Tom grasped his jaw again. The voice in his head faded to a dull yet insistent buzz.

_Oh, honey. Listen to me, Dean Winchester. I want you to let go._

Okay. Maybe that wasn't Missouri. Maybe Tom was putting something back in his head everytime he took something out. He honestly couldn't decide if he was happier about that option or not.

_Your Dad is coming with Sam, Dean, and - _

"No!" Dean blurted. What was Dad _thinking_? He couldn't really shout, wouldn't ever again, but that was damn close. Over his head, Meg and Tom exchanged baffled glances.

_Dean, you're better than this. Don't give me away!_

Oh, for fuck's sake. When people spoke of white lights and voices of angels, he highly doubted this was what they meant. What the fuck was going on?

_I let you get away with that language once, young man._

Definitely Missouri. Dean resisted a probably shock-induced fit of laughter. Perfect. Just _perfect_. He was being tortured to death, but heaven forbid he cuss!

Tom's eyes narrowed. Something was different about the broken body sprawled beneath him…

_Thank you. Now, _listen _to me. Let go, child. It's not giving up. It's what has to be. You can't protect him like this._

Okay, fun over. Dean would've shaken his head, if the end result wouldn't have been an accidental self-beheading. Sam was coming here. He wasn't leaving until he knew his brother would be okay. Period.

_Do you want to save Sam, Dean? It's the only way._

He opened his mouth - to deny it, to protest, to angrily declare that this was fucking insane and he wasn't fucking going fucking anywhere. But then he realized…

_Missouri, you'd better be fucking right about this or I swear to God, I will haunt your crystal ball and bitch for eternity._

"Damn!" Tom swore, nearly startling Meg enough to accidentally acquaint her drifting blade with Dean's family jewels. He dropped his knife.

_I fucking am, kid._

"What?" she snapped.

Dean Winchester relaxed bonelessly into the bloody puddle surrounding him, his last breath causing a gentle ripple to flow through the circle.

* * *

_Lawrence 18_, the newest sign announced.

Sam was accustomed to being mocked - be it with Dean's aggravated fondness or Meg's harsh purr. But he'd never considered street signs in the same category. Until now. His feet beat out a restless rhythm against the leather floormats.

"Sam," John spoke up, studiously calm. "If you don't stop that - _right now - _I _will_ make you walk the rest of the way.

Sam stopped, heaving a sigh. He tapped a finger against the side of the door, squirming restlessly against the hot leather until John's hardly subtle glare was enough for to him shove his hands into his pockets. He slumped down in the seat restlessly.

_Lawrence 11._

Dean's precious baby roared underneath them, the throttle near-deafening in the silence consuming them. John's foot was planted squarely against the accelerator pedal. If he looked over, Sam half-expected to find a hole where John had stomped the damn thing cleanly through the metal.

"Dad - " Sam started to say, visions of Stanford and his father watching him from shadowed doorframes going through his mind. "Dad, when - "

And then the pain hit.

He might've screamed, though he didn't hear it. With his hands still trapped, Sam's entire body spasmed, eyes rolling back. The tips of his fingers turned blue and every hair on his head stood on end.

"Sam!" John barked, not daring to slow down. The old car was going much too fast - one swift stop would ultimately be a permanent one. "Sam! Focus!"

His son moaned softly, tiny gasps of anguish ripping John's heart to pieces. "Oh, _fuck_! Dean!" Sam had time to choke, before another wave sent fire shooting up his spine. He wrestled his hands free, fingers clutching his neck as if holding it together.

_Lawrence 5._

"Sam! Sam, listen to me!"

Sam collapsed against the window, trembling. Dean's name echoed through the car, and John stared. Blood clearly tarnished Sam's smooth, undamaged throat. He blinked once and when he looked again, it was gone.

_Lawrence 2._

* * *

"I wasn't finished!" Father raged.

Tom shook the sacrifice mercilessly, slamming the boy's head against the exposed floor. Trying to _force_ the life he hadn't yet stolen to reappear.

"It's not a total loss, Tommy," Meg spoke up, still busily cutting away. Truthfully, she was disappointed. Granted, Dean had lasted far longer than the other humans who had endured the ritual at her hand. Mere test cases, those. But somehow, she'd _known_ he'd last until the end. Humans were such fragile creatures. "Dean's blood is still flowing. The corpse won't stop right away."

No response.

Meg brushed her hand over the one untouched area of Dean's chest. Personally, she would've done this _before_ slashing his throat, so he would've seen it, but her sense of victory wasn't too diminished.

"Sam is coming," Tom spoke suddenly. _They're here_, Father purred. He concentrated. He hadn't quite finished taking what he needed from the boy, but it would be enough.

Sam Winchester radiated power. None could best him now - except, perhaps, for the one person he loved above all others.

Meg raised her knife, preparing to plunge it into Dean's still, unbeating heart - when it flew out of her hand, tossed aside despite her startled efforts to hang on.

And then, on cue, Meg heard shouts. Feet pounded up the stairs and headed toward the door framed by smoke. Tom rose, rolling up his long sleeves. He bowed his head in a mockery of prayer, facing away from them all.

"Sam, dammit, wait!" A new voice barked, seconds before a blur shot through the doorway, breathing heavily.

* * *

Missouri's hands clenched into fists, shaking with effort. _Hang on,_ she thought desperately_. Hold on to me!_

* * *

"Hi, Sammy-boy!" Meg greeted cheerfully. "Okay, I've gotta say it. We've been expecting you, baby."

Time seemed to slow. Following his son, his every move deliberate against Sam's panicked flight, John Winchester entered and locked eyes with her. Meg shivered in spite of herself.

"Johnny," she murmured, typical insolence rapidly fading in the face of his sheer presence, deceptive physical strength tempered with anguish far beyond what his oldest had endured. She swallowed the bile in her throat. For the first time, doubt edged in. John had hardly merited consideration in their plans for Sam.

That was gonna cost them, Meg knew suddenly. But how much?

"Dean!" Sam cried, oblivious to everyone else, staring down at his brother in horror. He lay still, so frighteningly still, more blood outside his body than in it. His body covered with countless stabs, his head lulling to the side and limbs slack, he wasn't breathing. He was…

… dead.

"_No!_" Sam screamed, his rage, horror and grief building. The standoff between father and kidnapper ended as abruptly as it began. He didn't see John scramble to Dean's side, none of his usual grace in evidence, wild tears already beginning to fall. He didn't see a gloating Meg step out of the way, observing with quiet, cautious delight. He didn't see the _thing_ in Tom's form exhale in satisfaction before turning to face him.

All he saw, all he knew, was his slaughtered brother lying like a present at his feet.

_Finally, it ends_, Tom's form sneered, and even John was forced to hurl himself out of the way.

* * *

Since I last updated this (on 6/26/06), I've been promoted to supervisor at work, moved into my own (first) apartment and learned how to cook edibly. Wheel never stops turning!

One more chapter + epilogue to go.


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